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BY 


MRS. L. H., SIGOURNEY. 


HARTFORD: 
WILLIAMS, WILEY & WATERMAN. 
1862. 


_ ENTERED ACCORDING TO AcT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1862, BY _ 
IMRS.‘L. H. ‘SIGOURNEY; - “ » 


Ty THe CLerK’s OFFICE OF THE District Court oF CoNNECTIOUT. 
e : & : 


‘ 


PREFACE. 


THE arrogance of attempting a parody on the most 

~ ancient and sublime poem in the Inspired Volume, is 
not mine. The great pleasure enjoyed in its perusal 
from early years, had occasionally prompted metrical 

- imitations of isolated passages. These fragmentary 
© effusions, recently woven together, are here presented, 
~ with the hope that as wandering streams are traced 
S to their original fountain, some heart may thus be led 
: to the history of the stricken and sustained Patriarch, 
~ with more studious research, purer delight, or a 


~ 


“deeper spirit of devotion. 


7At 


L. H. S. 
Hartrorp, Cony., November 5th, 1862. 


&érzvet, 


2@La/)\ < 


OTE STORAGE 
REMO i caw ANE ke 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 
PREFACE, ; . : 3 
THe Man or Uz, -. é : : 9 
THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND, 
Canto First, : : : : 59 
Canto SEconp, : ° 91 
Canto Turrp, ; ; . 209 
IN MEMORIAM. 
1859. 
Rey. Dr. T. M Cootey, 2 : : 147 
Mapam OLIvi1a PHELPS, : : ; 149 
Martua AcGnes Bonner, : , , : 151 
Mapam WHITING, ; ; : ; yt POs 
Denison Oxmstep, LL. D., ; F 155 
Hersert Foss, . : - ; , jet AS 
Mrs. CHartes N. CADWALLADER, . ; : 159 
Rev. Dr. James W. ALEXANDER, ; ; cD ERE 
Mrs. JosepH MorGAy, 7 ' : é 163 
ALiceE BrcKWITH, ; , . ‘ 3168 


Mary Suipman DEMING, : : ; 167 


1860. 


hey. OR, as W. HAToR, 
Mrs, Payne, 


Mrs. Mary MILpENSTEIN ROBERTSON, 


Mapam WILLIAMS, 
Mr. SAMUEL OGDEN, 
Mr. GrorGe Bracu, . - 
Miss Marcaret C. Brown, 
Miss Frances Wyman Tracy, 
Deacon NorMAND SmIrTH, 
Mrs. Heten Tyrer Braces, 
Mrs. EvizaBetH Harris, 
Miss Anna M. Srymoour, 
CateB Hazen Tatcort, 

1861. 
Miss JANE PENELOPE WHITING, 
Miss AnNA FREEMAN, 
Mapam Ponp, 
ANNIE SrtymMour Rosinsoy, 
‘Mrs. Grorqaiana Ives Comstock, 
WeENtTWoRTH ALEXANDER, 
Mrs. Harvey Seymour, 
Mrs. FREDERICK TYLER, 
Miss Laura Kinessury, 
GovERNOR AND Mrs. TRUMBULL, 
Mrs. Emity ELisworts, 
Rey. Dr. SterHen JEwIrT7, 
Miss Det1A Wooprurr Goppine, 
Miss Sara K. Taytor, 


Mr. JOHN WARBURTON, 


Rey. Henry ALBERTSON Post, 


Miss CarouINe L. GRIFFIN, 
Mr. Normanp Burr, 
Hon. Tuomas S. WILLIAMs, 
Cot. H. L. MILter, 


Cot. SAmMuEL Cott, 
Mapam Hannan LaruHrop, 
HENRIETTA SELDEN COLT, 
Tue LittLe Broruers, 
Mr. D. F. Rosinson, 

Mr, Samve.t Tvupor, 
Henry Howarp Comstock, 
Rey. Dr. Davin Smira, 
Miss Emizty B. Parisu, 
Harriet ALLEN ELy, 

Miss CaTHARiNE Batt, 
Mrs. Morris Co.uins, 
Mrs. Margaret W ALBRIDGE, 
Tue Broruers BveE Lt, 

Mr. Puiuurre RIp.ey, 
Ricuarp Exy Co..inys, 
Miss ExvizaBpetH Brintey, 
Mr. Joun A. TarnTor, . 


Bie si 
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we 2 


THE MAN OF UZ. 


A JOYOUS FESTIVAL.— 

The gathering back 
Of scattered flowrets to the household wreath. 
Brothers and sisters from their sever’d homes 
Meeting with ardent smile, to renovate 
The love that sprang from cradle memories 
And childhood’s sports, and whose perennial stream 
Still threw fresh crystals o’er the sands of life. 
—KHach bore some treasured picture of the past, 
Some graphic incident, by mellowing time 
Made beautiful, while ever and anon, 
Timbrel and harp broke forth, each pause between. 
Banquet and wine-cup, and the dance, gave speed 
To youthful spirits, and prolong’d the joy. 


The patriarch father, with a chasten’d heart 
Partook his children’s mirth, having God’s fear 
Ever before him. Larnestly he brought 

His offerings and his prayers for every one 


Of that beloved group, lest in the swell 
2 


10 


And surging superflux of happiness 
They might forget the Hand from whence it came, 
Perchance, displease the Almighty. 

Many a care 
Had he that wealth creates. Not such as lurks 
In heaps metallic, which the rust corrodes, 
But wealth that fructifies within the earth 
Whence cometh bread, or o’er its surface roves 
In peaceful forms of quadrupedal life 
That thronging round the world’s first father came 
To take their names, ’mid Eden’s tranquil shades, 
Ere sin was born. 

Obedient to the yoke, 
Five hundred oxen turn’d the furrow’d glebe 
Where agriculture hides his buried seed 
Waiting the harvest hope, while patient wrought 
An equal number of that race who share 
The labor of the steed, without his praise. 
—Three thousand camels, with their arching necks, 
Ships of the desert, knelt to do his will, 
And bear his surplus wealth to distant climes, 
While more than twice three thousand snowy sheep 
Whitened the hills. Troops of retainers fed 
These flocks and herds, and their subsistence drew 
From the same lord,—so that this man of Uz 
Greater than all the magnates of the east, 
Dwelt in old time before us. 

True he gave, 
And faithfully, the hireling his reward, 


11 


Counting such justice ’mid the happier forms 
Of Charity, which with a liberal hand 

He to the sad and suffering poor dispensed. 
Eyes was he to the blind, and to the lame 

Feet, while the stranger and the traveller found 
Beneath the welcome shelter of his roof 

The blessed boon of hospitality. 


To him the fatherless and widow sought 
For aid and counsel. Fearlessly he rose 
For those who had no helper. His just mind 
Brought stifled truth to hight, disarm’d the wiles 
Of power, and gave deliverance to the weak. 
He pluck’d the victim from the oppressor’s grasp, 
And made the tyrant tremble. 

To his words 
Men listened, as to lore oracular, 
And when beside the gate he took his seat 
The young kept silence, and the old rose up 
To do him honor. After his decree 
None spake again, for as a prince he dwelt 
Wearing the diadem of righteousness, 
And robed in that respect which greatness wins 
When leagued with goodness, and by wisdom crown’d. 
The grateful prayers and blessings of the souls 
Ready to perish, silently distill’d 
Upon him, as he slept. 

So as a tree 
Whose root is by the river’s brink, he grew 


6 


12 


And flourish’d, while the dews like balm-drops hung 
All night upon his branches. 

Yet let none 
Of woman born, presume to build his hopes 
On the worn cliff of brief prosperity, 
Or from the present promise, predicate 
The future joy. The exulting bird that sings 
Mid the green curtains of its leafy nest 
His tuneful trust untroubled there to live, 
And there to die, may meet the archer’s shaft 
When next it spreads the wing. 

The tempest folds 
O’er the smooth forehead of the summer noon 
Its undiscover’d purpose, to emerge 
Resistless from its armory, and whelm 
In floods of ruin, ere the day decline. 


Lightning and sword! 

Swift messengers, and sharp, 
Reapers that leave no gleanings. In their path 
Silence and desolation fiercely stalk. 
—0O’er trampled hills, and on the blood-stain’d plains 
There is no low of kine, or bleat of flocks, 
The fields are rifled, and the shepherds slain. 


The Man of Uz, who stood but yestermorn 
Above all compeers,—clothed with wealth and power, 
To day is poorer than his humblest hind. 


13 


A whirlwind from the desert! 

All unwarn’d 
Its fury came. Earth like a vassal shook. 
Majestic trees flew hurtling through the air 
Like rootless reeds. 

There was no time for flight. 
Buried in household wrecks, all helpless lay 
Masses of quivering life. 

Job’s eldest son 
That day held banquet for their numerous line 
At his own house. With revelry and song, 
One moment in the glow of kindred hearts 
The lordly mansion rang, the next they lay 
Crush’d neath its ruins. 

He,—the childless sire, 
Last of his race, and lonely as the pine 
That crisps and blackens ‘neath the lightning shaft 
Upon the cliff, with such a rushing tide 
The mountain billows of his misery came, 
' Drove they not Reason from her beacon-hold ? 
Swept they not his strong trust in Heaven away? 


List,—list,—the sufferer speaks. 
“The Lord who gave 
Hath taken away,—and blessed be His name.” 


4 


Oh Patriarch !—teach us, mid this changeful life 
Not to mistake the ownership of joys 


Entrusted to us for a little while, 
Q* 


14 


But when the Great Dispenser shall reclaim 
His loans, to render them with praises back, 
As best befits the indebted. 
Should a tear 
Moisten the offering, He who knows our frame 
And well remembereth that we are but dust, 
Is full of pity. 
It was said of old 

Time conquer’d Grief. But unto me it seems 
That Grief overmastereth Time. It shows how wide 
The chasm between us, and our smitten joys 
And saps the strength wherewith at first we went 
Into life’s battle. We perchance, have dream’d 
That the sweet smile the sunbeam of our home 
The prattle of the: babe the Spoiler seiz’d, 
Had but gone from us for a little while,— 
And listen’d in our fallacy of hope 
At hush of eve for the returning step 
That wake the inmost pulses of the heart 
To extasy,—till iron-handed Grief 
Press’d down the nevermore into our soul, 
Deadening us with its weight. 

The man of Uz 
As the slow lapse of days and nights reveal’d 
The desolation of his poverty 
Felt every nerve that at the first great shock 
Was paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrink 
As from a fresh-cut wound. There was no son 
To come in beauty of his manly prime 


15 


With words of counsel and with vigorous hand 
To aid him in his need, no daughter’s arm 

To twine around him in his weariness, 

Nor kiss of grandchild at the even-tide 

Going to rest, with prayer upon its lips. 


Still a new trial waits. 

The blessed health 
Heayen’s boon, thro’ which with unbow’d form we bear 
Burdens and ills, forsook him. Maladies 
Of fierce and festering virulence attack’d 
His swollen limbs. Incessant, grinding pains 
Laid his strength prostrate, till he counted life 
A loathed thing. Dire visions frighted sleep 
That sweet restorer of the wasted frame, 
And mid his tossings to and fro, he moan’d 
Oh, when shall I arise, and Night be gone! 


Despondence seized him. ‘To the lowhest place 
Alone he stole, and sadly took his seat 
In dust and ashes. 
She, his bosom friend 
The sharer of his lot for many years, 
Sought out his dark retreat. Shuddering she saw 
His kingly form like living sepulchre, 
And in the maddening haste of sorrow said 
God hath forgotten. 
She with him had borne 
Unuttered woe o’er the untimely graves 
Of all whom she had nourished,—shared with him 


16 


The silence of a home that hath no child, 
The plunge from wealth to want, the base contempt 
Of menial and of ingrate ;—but to see 
The dearest object of adoring love 
Her next to God, a prey to vile disease 
Hideous and loathsome, all the beauty marred 
That she had worshipped from her ardent youth 
Deeming it half divine, she could not bear, 
Her woman’s strength gave way, and impious words 
In her despair she uttered. 

But her lord 
To deeper anguish stung by her defect 
And rash advice, reprovingly replied 
Pointing to Him who meeteth out below 
Both good and evil in mysterious love, 
And she was silenced. 

What a sacred power 
Hath hallow’d Friendship o’er the nameless ills 
That throng our pilgrimage. Its sympathy, 
Doth undergird the drooping, and uphold 
The foot that falters in its miry path. 
It grows more precious, as the hair grows grey. 
Time’s alchymy that rendereth so much dross 
Back for our gay entrustments, shows more pure 
The perfect essence of its sanctity, 
Gold unalloyed. 

How doth the cordial grasp, 
Of hands that twined with ours in school days, now 
Delight us as our sunbeam nears the west, 


17 


Soothing, perchance our self-esteem with proofs 
That ’mid all faults the good have loved us still, 
And quickening with redoubled energy 
To do or suffer. 

The three friends of Job 
Who in the different regions where they dwelt 
T’eman, and Naamah and the Shuhite land, 
Heard tidings of his dire calamity, 
Moved by one impulse, journey’d to impart 
Their sorrowing sympathy. 

Yet when they saw 
Him fallen so low, so chang’d that scarce a trace 
Remained to herald his identity 
Down by his side upon the earth, they sate 
Uttering no language save the gushing tear,— 
Spontaneous homage to a grief so great. 


Oh Silence, born of Wisdom! we have felt 
Thy fitness, when beside the smitten friend 
We took our place. The voiceless sympathy 
The tear, the tender pressure of the hand 
Interpreted more perfectly than words 
The purpose of our soul. 

We speak to err, 
Waking to agony some broken chord 
Or bleeding nerve that slumbered. Words are weak, 
When God’s strong discipline doth try the soul ; 
And that deep silence was more eloquent 
Than all the pomp of speech. 


18 


Yet the long pause 
Of days and nights, gave scope for troubled thought 
And their bewildered minds unskillfully 
Launching all helmless on a sea of doubt 
Explored the cause for which such woes were sent, 
Forgetful that this mystery of life 
Yields not to man’s solution. Passing on 
From natural pity to philosophy 
That deems Heaven’s judgments penal, they inferr’d 
Some secret sin unshrived by penitence, 
That drew such awful visitations down. 
While studying thus the wherefore, with vain toil 
Of painful cogitation, lo! a voice 
Hollow and hoarse, as from the mouldering tomb, 


‘‘ Perish the day in which I saw the light! 
The day when first my mother’s nursing care 
Sheltered my helplessness. Let it not come 
Into the number of the joyful months, 
Let blackness stain it and the shades of death 
Forever terrify it. 

For it cut 
Not off as an untimely birth my span, 
Nor let me sleep where the poor prisoners hear 
No more the oppressor, where the wicked cease 
From troubling and the weary are at rest. 
Now as the roar of waves my sorrows swell, 
And sighs like tides burst forth till I forget 
To eat my bread. That which I greatly feared 


19 


Hath come upon me. Not in heedless pride 
Nor wrapped in arrogance of full content 
{ dwelt amid the tide of prosperous days, 
And yet this trouble came.” 

With mien unmoved 
The Temanite reprovingly replied: 
“Who can refrain longer from words, even though 
To speak be grief? Thou hast the instructor been 
Of many, and their model how to act. 
When trial came upon them, if their knees 
Bow’d down, thou saidst, “ be strong,” and they obey’d. 
But now it toucheth thee and thou dost shrink, 
And murmuring, faint. The monitor forgets 
The precepts he hath taught. Is this thy faith, 
Thy confidence, the uprightness of thy way ? 
Whoever perish’d being innocent? 
And when were those who walk’d in righteous ways 
Cut off? How oft I’ve seen that those who sow 
The seeds of evil secretly, and plow 
Under a veil of darkness, reap the same. 


In visions of the night, when deepest sleep 
Falls upon men, fear seiz’d me, all my bones 
Trembled, and every stiffening hair rose up. 

A spirit pass’d before me, but I saw 

No form thereof. I knew that there it stood, 
Even though my straining eyes discern’d it not. 
Then from its moveless lips a voice burst forth, 
“Ts man more just than God? Is mortal man 


20 


More pure than He who made him? 

Lo, he puts 
No trust in those who serve him, and doth charge 
Angels with folly. How much less in them 
Dwellers in tents of clay, whose pride is crush’d 
Before the moth. From morn to eve they die 


And none regard it.” 
So despise thou not 


The chastening of the Almighty, ever just, 

Yor did thy spirit please him, it should rise 

More glorious from the storm-cloud, all the earth 
At peace with thee, new offspring like the grass 
Cheering thy home, and when thy course was done 
Even as a shock of corn comes fully ripe 

Into the garner should thy burial be 

Belov’d and wept of all.” 


Mournful arose 
The sorrowful response. 

“Oh that my grief 
Were in the balance laid by faithful hands 
And feeling hearts. ‘To the afflicted soul 
Friends should be comforters. But mine have dealt 
Deceitfully, as fails the shallow brook 
When summer's need is sorest. 

Did I say 
Bring me a gift? or from your flowing wealth 
Give solace to my desolate penury ? 
Or with your pitying influence neutralize 
My cup of scorn poured out by abject hands ? 


21 


That thus ye mock me with contemptuous words 
And futile arguments, and dig a pit 
In which to whelm the man you call a friend? 
Still darkly hinting at some heinous sin 
Mysteriously concealed ? 

Writes conscious guilt 
No transcript on the brow? Hangs it not out 
Its signal there, altho’ it seem to hide 
’Neath an impervious shroud ? 

Look thro’ the depths 
Of my unshrinking eye, deep, deep within. ° 
What see ye there? what gives suspicion birth ? 
As longs the laborer for the setting sun, 
Watching the lengthening shadows that foretell 
The time of rest, yet day by day returns 
To the same task again, so I endure 
Wearisome nights and months of burdening woe. 
I would not alway live this loathed life 
Whose days are vanity. Soon shall I sleep 
Low in the dust, and when the morning comes 
And thro’ its curtaining mists ye seek my face 
I shall not be.” 


Karnest the Shuhite spake, 
“How long shall these thy words, like eddying winds 
Fall empty on the ear? 
Doth God pervert 
Justice and judgment? If thy way was pure, 
Thy supplication from an upright heart 
3 


22 


He would awake and make thy latter end 
More blest than thy beginning. 

For inquire 
Of ancient times, of History’s honor’d scroll 
And of the grey-hair’d fathers, if our words 
Seem light, we who were born but yesterday. 
Ask them and they shall teach thee, as the rush, 
Or as the flag forsaken of the pod, 
So shall the glory of the hypocrite 
Fade in its greenness. 
. Tho’ his house may seem 
Awhile to flourish, it shall not endure. 
Hven tho’ he grasp it with despairing strength 
It shall deceive his trust and pass away, 
As fleets the spider’s filmy web. Behold 
God will not cast away the perfect man 
Nor help the evil doer.” 


In low tones, 
Sepulchral, and with pain, the sufferer spake, 
‘“‘T know that this is truth, but how can man 
Be just with God? How shall he dare contend 
With Him who stretches out the sky and treads 
Upon the mountain billows of the sea, 
And sealeth up the stars? 

Array’d in strength, 
He passeth by me, but I see Him not. 
I hear His chariot-wheels, yet fear to ask 
Where goest Thou ? 


23 


If I, indeed, were pure, 
And perfect, like the model ye see fit 
To press upon me with your sharpest words, 
I would not in mine arrogance arise 
And reason with Him, but all humbly make 
Petition to my Judge. 

If there were one 
T’o shield me from His terrors, and to stand 
As mediator, I might dare to ask 
Why didst Thou give this unrequested boon 
Of life, to me, unhappy? My few days 
Are swifter than a post. As the white sail 
Fades in the mist, as the strong eagle’s wing 
Leaves no receding trace, they flee away, 
They see no good. 

Hath not Thy mighty hand 
Fashion’d and made this curious form of clay, 
Fene’d round with bones and sinews, and inspired 
By a mysterious soul? Oh be not stern 
Against Thy creature, as the Lion marks 
His destin’d prey. 

Relent and let me take 
Comfort a little, ere I go the way 
Whence I return no more, to that far land 
Of darkness and the dreary shades of death.” 


Scarce had he ceas’d ere Zophar’s turbid thoughts 
Made speed to answer. 
‘Shall a tide of talk 


24 


Wash out transgression? If thou choose to set 
The truth at nought, must others hold their peace? 
Hast thou not boasted that thy deeds and thoughts 
Were perfect in the almighty Maker’s sight ? 
Canst thou by searching find out God? Behold 
Higher than heaven it is, what canst thou do? 
Deeper than deepest hell, what canst thou know ? 
Why wilt thou ignorantly deem thyself 
Unblamed before Him? 

Oh that He would speak, 
And put to shame thine arrogance. 

His glance 
Discerns all wickedness, all vain pretence 
To sanctity and wisdom. Were thine heart 
Rightly prepared, and evil put away 
From that and from thy house, then shouldst thou lift 
Thy spotless face, clear as the noon-day sun 
Stedfast and fearless. Yea, thou shouldst forget 
Thy misery, as waters that have past 
Away forever. 

Thou shouldst be secure 
And dig about thee and take root, and rest, 
While those who scorn thee now, with soul abased, 
Should make their suit unto thee. 

But the eyes 
Of wicked men shall fail, and as the groan 
Of him who giveth up the ghost, shall be 
Their frustrate hope.” 


25 


Dejectedly, as one 
Who wearied in a race, despairs to reach 
The destined goal, nor yet consents to leave 
His compeers masters of an unwon field. 
Job said,— 

‘“No doubt ye think to have attained 

Monopoly of knowledge, and with you 
Wisdom shall die. This modesty of creed 
Befits ye well. Yet what have ye allede’d 
Unheard before? what great discoveries made? 
Who knoweth not such things as ye have told ? 
Despised am I by those who call’d me friend 
In prosperous days. Like a dim, waning lamp 
About to be extinguished am I held 
By the dull minds of those who dwell at ease. 
Weak reasoners that ye are, ye have essay’d 
To speak for God. Suppose ye He doth need 
Such advocacy? whose creative hand 
Holdeth the soul of every living thing, 
And breath of all mankind? 

He breaketh down, 
And who can build again? Princes and kings 
Are nothing in his sight. Disrobed of power 
Ceaseless they wander and He heedeth not. 
Those whom the world have worship’d seem as fools. 
He lifteth up the nations at His will, 
Or sweeps them with his lightest breath away ~ 
Like noteless atoms. 

3% 


26 


Silence is for you 

The truest wisdom. Creatures that ye count 
Inferior to yourselves, who in thin air 
Spread the light wing, or thro’ the waters glide, 
Or roam the earth, might teach if ye would hear 
And be instructed by them. 

. Hold your peace! 
Even tho’ He slay me I will trust in Him 
For He is my salvation, He alone ; 
At whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dare 


To stand, or answer. 
Man, of woman born 


Is of few days, and full of misery. 

Forth like a flower he comes, and is cut down, 
He fleeth like a shadow. What is man 

That God regardeth hin? The forest tree 
Fell’d by the woodman may have hope to live 
And sprout again, and thro’ the blessed touch 
Of waters at the root put forth new buds 

And tender branches like a plant. But man 
Shorn of his strength, doth waste away and die, 
He giveth up the ghost and where is he? 

As slides the mountain from its heaving base 
Hurling its masses o’er the startled vale, 

As the rent rock resumes its place no more, 

As the departed waters leave no trace 

Save the groov’d channels where they held their course 
Among the fissur’d stones, his form of dust 
With its chang’d countenance, is sent away 
And all the honors that he sought to leave 


27 


Behind him to his sons, avail him not.” 
He ceas’d and Eliphaz rejoin’d, 

“A man 
Of wisdom dealeth not in empty words 
That like the east wind stirs the unsettled sands 
To profitless revolt. Thou dost decry 
Our speech and proudly justify thyself 
Before thy God. He to whose searching eye 
Heavens’ pure immaculate ether seems unclean. 
Ask of tradition, ask the white hair’d men 
Much older than thy father, since to us 
Thou deign’st no credence. Say they not to thee, 
All, as with one consent, the wicked man 
Travaileth with fruitless pain, a dreadful sound 
‘Forever in his ears; the mustering tramp 
Of hostile legions on the distant cloud, 
A far-off echo from the woe to come? 
Such is his lot who sinfully contends 
Against the just will of the Judging One, 
Lifting his puny arm in rebel pride 
And rushing like a madman on his doom. 
The wealth he may have gathered shall dissolve 
And turn to ashes mid devouring flame. 
His branch shall not be green, but as the vine 
Casteth her unripe grapes, as thro’ the leaves 
Of rich and lustrous hue, the olive buds 
Untimely strew the ground, shall be his trust 
Who in the contumacy of his pride 
Would fain deceive both others and himself.” 


28 


To whom, the Man of Uz,— 

‘“These occult truths 
If such ye deem them, I have heard before ; 
Oh miserable comforters! I too 
Stood but your soul in my soul’s stead, could heap 
Vain, bitter words, and shake my head in scorn. 
But I would study to assuage your pain, 
And solace shed upon your stricken hearts 
With balm-drops of sweet speech. 

Yet, as for me, 
I speak and none regard, or drooping sit 
In mournful silence, and none heed my woe. 
They smite me on the cheek reproachfully, 
And slander me in secret, though my cause 
And witness rest with the clear-judging Heaven. 
My record is on high. 

Oh Thou, whose hand 
Hath thus made desolate all my company, 
And left me a poor, childless man—behold 
They who once felt it pride to call me friend, 
Make of my name a by-word, which was erst 
Like harp or tabret to their venal lip. 
Mine eye is dim with grief, my wasted brow 
Furrow’d with wrinkles. 

Soon I go the way 
Whence I shall not return. The grave, my house, 
Is ready for me. In its mouldering clay 
My bed I make, and say unto the worm 
Thou art my sister.” 


29 


With unpitying voice 
Not comprehending Job, the Shuhite spake. 
‘‘ How long ere thou shalt make an end of words 
So profitless and vain? Thou dost account 
Us vile as beasts. But shall the stable earth 
With all its rocks and mountains be removed 
For thy good pleasure ? 

See, the hght forsake 
The wicked man. Darkness and loneliness 
Enshroud his dwelling-place. His path shall be 
Mid snares and traps, and his own counsel fail 
To guide him safely. By the heel, the gin 
Shall seize him, and the robber’s hand prevail 
To rifle and destroy his treasure hoard. 
Secret misgivings feed upon his strength, 
And terrors waste his courage. He shall find 
In his own tabernacle no repose, 
Nor confidence. His withering root shall draw 
No nutriment, and the unsparing ax 
Cut off his branches. From a loathing world 
He shall be chased away, and leave behind 
No son or nephew to bear up his name 
Among the people. No kind memories 
Shall linger round his ashes, or refresh 
The hearts of men. They who come after him 
Shall be astonish’d at his doom, as they 
Who went. before him, view’d it with affright. 
Such is the lot of those who know not God 
Or wickedly renounce Him.” 


30 


HKarnestly 
Replied the suffering man, 
“Ye vex my soul 
And break it into pieces. These ten times 
Have ye reproach’d me, without sense of shame 
Or touch of sympathy. If I have err’d 
As without witness ye essay to prove 
"Tis my concern, not yours. 
But yet, how vain 
To speak of wrong, or plead the cause of truth 


Before the unjust. 
Can ye not understand 


God in his wisdom hath afflicted me ? 

His hand hath reft away my crown and stripp’d 
Me of my glory. Kindred blood vouchsafes 
No aid or solace in my deep distress. 

Kstrang’d and far away, like statues cold 
Brethren and kinsfolk stand. Familiar friends 
Frown on me as a stranger. They who dwell 
In my own house and eat my bread, despise me. 
I call’d my own tried servant, but he gave 

No answer or regard. My maidens train’d 

For household service, to perform my will 
Count me an alien ;—even with my wife 

My voice hath lost its power. Young children rise 
And push away my feet and mock my words. 
Yea, the best loved, most garner’d in my heart 
Do turn against me as a thing abhorr’d. 

Have pity, pity on me, oh my friends!. 

The hand of God hath smitten me. 


31 


I know 
That my Redeemer liveth, and shall stand 


At last upon the earth, and though in death 
Worms shall destroy this body, in my flesh 
Shall I see God.” 


This glorious burst of faith 
Springing from depths of misery and pain 
Awed them a moment, like the lightning’s flash, 
Cleaving the cloud. But gathering strength again, 
They sought the conflict. 

‘hou, who art so wise, 
Hast thou not learn’d how baseless is the joy 
And boasting of the hypocrite? His head : 
Up to the heavens in excellence and pride 
May seem to mount, yet shall he swiftly fall 
Leaving no trace. Though still he toils to keep 
His sin a secret from his fellow-men, 
Like a sweet, stolen morsel, hiding it 
Under his tongue, yet shall the veil be rent. 
God’s fearful judgments shall make evident 
What he hath done in darkness. Vipers’ tongues 
And the dire poison of the asp, shall be 
His recompense. ‘Terrors shall strike -him through, 
An inward fire of sharp remorse, unblown 
By mortal hand, shall on his vitals feed, 
And all his strength consume. His wealth shall fleet, 
And they who trusted to become his heirs 
Embrace a shadow, for his goods shall flow 


o2 


Away, as the false brook forsakes its sands. 
This is the portion of the hypocrite, 
The heritage appointed him by God.” 


To Zophar answered Job,— 

| ‘Hear ye my speech, 
And when ’tis done, mock on. Not unto man 
Is my complaint. or were it so, my heart 
Would sink in darker depths of hopeless woe. 
Say ye that earth’s ‘prosperity’ rewards 
The righteous man? Why do the wicked live, 
Grow old, and magnify themselves in power? 
Their offspring flourish round them, their abodes 
Are safe from fear. Their cattle multiply 
And widely o’er the hills and pastures green 
Wander their healthful herds. Forth like a flock 
They send their little ones, with dance and song, 
Tabret and harp. They spend their days in wealth 
And sink to slumber in the quiet grave. 
Yet unto God they said, Depart from us, 
For we desire no knowledge of thy ways. 
Why should we serve the Almighty? Who is he? 
And what our profit if we pray to Him? 


Close by these impious ones lies down to sleep, 
One in the strength and glory of his prime, 
Whom sorrow never touch’d, nor age impair’d ; 
And still another, wan misfortune’s child, 
Nurtur’d in bitterness, who never took 


33 


His meat with pleasure. Side by side they rest 
On Death’s oblivious pillow. Do ye say 

Their varied lot below, mark’d their deserts ? 
In retribution just? 


~ 

But as for you 
With eyes so sharp for your own selfish ends, 
Who by the wayside ask where’er ye go, 
“Where ts the dwelling of the prince? and seek 
Gain more than godliness, I know full well 
Your deep contempt for one too poor to bribe 
Your false allegiance, and the unkind device 
Ye wrongfully imagine. 

Will ye teach 
Knowledge to God? Doth He not wisely judge 
The highest? and reserve the sons of guilt 
For the destruction that awaiteth them?” 


In quick rejoinder, Hliphaz replied, 
‘‘ What is thy fancied goodness in the sight 
Of the Almighty? Is it gain to Him 
If thou art righteous? Would it add to Him 
Gladness or glory, that thy ways should be 
What thou call’st perfect ? 

Rather turn thine eyes 
Upon the record of thy sins, and see 
Their countless number. 

Hast thou taken a pledge 


From thy poor brother’s hand? or reft away 
4 


bt 


The garment from the shivering? or withheld 
Bread from the hungry? or the widow sent 
Empty away? not given the weary soul 
What it implored? nor bound the broken arm 
Of the forsaken fatherless? 

For this 
Have snares beset thee? and a secret fear 
Dismay’d thy spirit? and a rayless night 


Shut over thee? 
Look to the height of heaven, 


Above the utmost star. Is not God there? 
Think’st thou that aught can intercept His sight 
Or bar His righteous judgment? He who makes 
The thickest clouds His footstool, when He walks 
Upon the circuit of the highest heavens? 
Acquaint thyself with Him and be at peace, 
Return to Him, and He shall build thee up. 
Take thou His precepts to thine inmost heart 
That thy lost blessings may revisit thee. 
Put far away thy foster’d sins, and share 
The swelling flood-tide of prosperity. 
Thou shalt have silver at thy will, and gold, 
The gold of Ophir in thy path shall le 
As stones that pave the brooks. 

Make thou thy prayer, 
And pay thy vows, and He will hear thy voice 
And give thee light, and thy desires confirm: 
For He will save the humble and protect 
The innocent and still deliver those 
Whose hands are pure.” 


30 


To whom, the Man of Uz, 


“Oh that I knew where I might find my Judge, 
That I might press even to His seat, and plead 
My cause before Him. Would He strike me dumb 
With His great power? Nay,—rather would he give 
Strength to the weakness that would answer Him. 
Lo! I go forward,—but He is not there,— 
And backward, yet my eyes perceive Him not. 
On the left hand, His works surround me still, 
But He is absent,—on the right, I gaze, 
Yet doth He hide Himself. 

But well He knows 
My way, and when the time of trial’s o’er, 
And the refining fire hath purg’d the dross, 
I shall come forth as gold. My feet have kept 
The path appointed, nor from His commands 
Unduly swerved, for I have prized His word 
More than my needful food. 

Yet He performs 
What His wise counsel hath decreed for me, 
Though sometimes sinks my soften’d heart beneath 
The terror of His stroke. 

There are, who seize 
With violence whate’er their eyes desire ; 
Gorging themselves upon the stolen flock 
And leaving desolate the rifled hut 
Of the defenceless. Solitary ones 
Hide from their robberies, for forth they go 
Into the wilderness, their prey to hunt 


36 


Like ravening beasts. 
There are, who watch to slay, 


Rising before the dawn, or wrapp’d in night 
Roaming with stealthy footstep, as a thief, 
To smite their victims, while the wounded groan 
Struck by their fatal shaft. 

There are, who do 
Such deeds of utter darkness as detest 
The gaze of day. Muffling their face, they dig 
Their way to habitations where they leave 


Shame and dishonor. 
Though He seem to sleep, 


God’s eye is on their ways. A little while 
They wrap themselves in secret infamy, 

Or proudly flourish,—but as the tall tree 
Yields in a moment to the wrecking blast, 

As ‘neath the sickle falls the crisping corn, 
Shall they be swept away, and leave no trace.” 


e 
Bildad, the Shuhite, rose in act to speak. 


‘Dominion is with God, and fear. He makes 
Peace in his own high places. Dost thou know 
The number of His armies? Or on whom 


His light ariseth not ? 
How then can man 


Be justified with God? or he be pure 

Born of a woman. Lo! the cloudless Moon, 
And yon unsullied stars, are in His sight 
Dim and impure. Can man who is a worm 
Be spotless with his Maker?” 


ie et Be 


37 


Hark, the voice 
Of the afflicted man : 

‘How dost thou help 
Him that is powerless? how sustain the arm 
That fails in strength? how counsel him who needs 
Wisdom? and how declare the righteous truth 
Just as it is? 

To Him who reads the soul, 
Hades is naked, and the realms of Death 
Have naught to cover them. This pendent Earth 
Hangs on his word,—in gathering clouds he binds 
The ponderous waters, till at his command 
They rend their filmy prison. Day and night 
Await his nod to run their measured course. 
Heaven’s pillars and its everlasting gates 
Tremble at his reproof. The cleaving sea 
And man’s defeated pride confess his power. 
Yet the same Hand that garnisheth the skies 
Disdaineth not to fashion and sustain 
The crooked serpent. But how small a part 
Of all its works are understood by us 
Dim dwellers in this lowly vestibule, 
And by the thunders of mysterious power 
Still held in awe. 

As the Eternal lives 
Who hath bow’d down my soul, as long as breath 
Inspires this mortal frame, these lips shall ne’er 
Utter deceit, nor cast away the wealth 


Of a good conscience. While I live I'll hold 
4* 


08 


Fast mine integrity,—nor justify 
The slanderous charges of a secret guilt 
Ye bring against me. 

For what is the gain 
Of the base hypocrite when God shall take 
Away his perjured soul? Yourselves have seen 
How often in this life the wicked taste 
Of retribution. The oppressor bears 
Sway for a while,—but look !—the downfall comes. 
His offspring shall not flourish, nor his grave 
Be wet with widow’s tears. 

The unjust rich man 
Heapeth up silver for a stranger’s hand, 
He hoardeth raiment with a miser’s greed | 
To robe he knows not who, though he himself 
Had grude’d to wear it. Boastfully he builds 
A costly mansion to preserve his name 
Among the people. But hke the shght booth, 
Brief lodge of summer, shall it pass away. 
Terrors without a cause, disable him 
And drown his courage. Like a driven leaf 
Before the whirlwind, shall he hasten down 
To a dishonor’d tomb. Men shall rejoice, 
And clap their hands, and hiss him from his place 
When he departs. 

Surely, there is a vein 
For silver, and a secret bed for gold 
Which man discovers. Where the iron sleeps 
In darkest chambers of the mine he knows, 


359 


And how the brass is molten. But a Mind 
Deeper than his, close-hidden things explores, 
Searching out all perfection. 

EHarth unveils 
The mystic treasures of her matron breast, 
Bread for her children, gems like living flame, 
Sapphires, whose azure emulates the skies, 
And dust of gold. Yet there’s a curtain’d path 
Which the unfettered denizens of air 
Have not descried, nor even the piercing eye 
Of the black vulture seen. The lion’s whelps 
In their wide roaming, nor their fiercer sire 
Have never trod it. 

There’s a Hand that bares 
The roots of mountains at its will, and cuts 
Through rifted rocks a channel, where the streams 


And rivers freely flow—an Eye that scans 
Kach precious thing. 

But where doth Wisdom dwell ? 
And in what curtain’d chamber was the birth 
Of Understanding? 

The great Sea uplifts 
Its hand in adjuration, and declares 
‘OTs not with me,” and its unfathom’d deep 
In subterranean thunders, echoing cry 
“ No, not with me.” 

Offer ye not for them 
Silver, or Ophir’s gold, nor think to exchange 
Onyx, or sapphire, or the coral branch 


40 


Or crystal gem where hides imprison’d light, 
Nor make ye mention of the precious pearl 
Or Ethiopian topaz, for their price ee 
Transcendeth rubies, or the dazzling ray 
Of concentrated jewels. : 
In what place 
Are found these wondrous treasures?) Who will show 
Their habitation ? which alike defies 
The ken of those who soar, or those who delve 
In cells profound. 2 
Death and destruction say, 
From their hoarse caverns, ‘ We have heard their fame 
But know them not.” 
Lo! He who weighs the winds 
Measures the floods, controls the surging sea 
And points the forked lightnings where to play, 
He, unto whom all mysteries are plain 
All secrets open, all disguises clear, 
Saith unto man the questioner,— 
“ Behold 
The fear of God is wisdom, and to break 
The sway of evil and depart from sin 
Is understanding.” 
Anguish wrings my soul 
As in my hours of musing I restore 
The picture of my lost prosperity, 
When round my side my loving children drew 
And from my happy home my steps were hail’d 
Where’er I went. The fatherless and poor, 


re of gratitude, and they 
sig s quench’d, at my remembered tones 
R lessings on me. Overflowing wealth 
oht me no titles that I held so dear 
As father of the poor, and comforter ‘ 
Of all who mourn. 
When in the gate I sate 


The nobles did me honor, and the wise 


‘ounsel of me. 'T'o my words the young 
arnest heed, the white-hair’d men stood up, 
s waited for my speech, as wait 
The fields Sin summer for the latter rain. 
But now, the children of base men spring up 
And push away my feet, and make my name 
A bye-word and a mockery, which was erst 
Set to the harp in song. 
Because my wealth 
God hath resumed, they who ne’er dared to claim 
Equality with even the lowest ones 
Who watch’d my flock, they whom my menials scorned, 
Dwellers in hovels, feeding like the brutes 
_ On roots and bushes of the wilderness, 
Despise me, and in mean derision cast 
Marks of abhorrence at the fallen chief 
Whom erst they fear’d. 


42 


Unpitied I endure 
Sickness and pain that ope the narrow house 
Where all the living go. My soul dissolves 
And flows away as water—like the owl 
In lone, forgotten cavern I complain, 
For all my instruments of music yield 
But mournful sounds, and from my organ comes 
A sob of weeping. 

I appeal to Him 
Who sees my ways, and all my steps doth count, 
If I have walk’d with vanity or worn 
The veil of falsehood, or despised to obey 
The law of duty; if I basely prowl’d 
With evil purpose round my neighbor’s door, 
Or scorm’d my humblest menial’s cause to right 
When he contended with me, and complain’d, 
Framed as he was ofthe same clay with me 
By the same Hand Divine; or shunn’d to share 
-Even my last morsel with the hungry poor, 
Or shield the uncovered suppliant with the fleece 
Of my own cherish’d flock. 

If ere I made 
Fine gold my confidence, or lifted up 
My heart in pride, because my wealth was great, 
Or when I saw the glorious King of Day 
Gladdening all nations, and the queenly Moon 
Walking in brightness, was enticed to pay 
A secret homage,—'twere idolatry 
Unpardonably great. 


43 


If I rejoiced 
In the affliction of mine enemy 
Or for his hatred breathed a vengeful vow 
When trouble came upon him,—if I closed 
The inhospitable door against the foot 
Of stranger, or of traveller,—or withheld 
Full nutriment from any who abode 
Within my tabernacle,—or refused 
Due justice even to my own furrow’d field, 
Then let my harvest unto thistles turn, 
And rootless weeds o’ertop the beardless grain.” 


Then ceased the Man of Uz, like one o’erspent, 
Feeling the fallacy of argument 
With auditors like these, his thoughts withdrew 
Into the shroud of silence, and he spake 
No more unto them, standing fix’d and mute, 
Like statued marble. 

Then, as none replied, 
A youthful stranger rose, and while he stretch’d 
His hand in act to speak, and heavenward raised 
His clear, unshrinking brow, he worthy seem’d 
To hold the balance of that high debate. 
Still, an indignant warmth, with energy 
Of fervid eloquence his lips inspired. 


—‘‘T said that multitude of days should bring 
Wisdom to man, and so gave earnest heed 
To every argument. And lo! not one 


44. 


Of all your speeches have convicted Job, 
Or proved your theory that woes like his 
Denote a secret guilt. 

I listened still 
With that respect which youth doth owe to age, 
And till ye ceased to speak, refrain’d to show 
Mine own opinion. But there is a breath 
From the Almighty, that gives life to thought, 
And in my soul imprison’d utterance burns 
Like torturing flame. So, will I give it vent 
Though I am young in years, and ye are old, 
And should be wise. I will not shun to uphold 
The righteous cause, nor will I gloze the wrong 
With flattering titles, lest the kindling wrath 
Of an offended Maker, sweep me hence. 


Hearken, O Job, I pray thee, to my words 
For they are words of truth. 
Thou hast assumed 
More perfect innocence than appertains 
To erring man, and eager to refute 
False accusation hast contemn’d the course 
Of the All-Merciful. icf 
Why shouldst thou strive 
With Him whose might of wisdom ne’er unveils 
Its mysteries to man? Yet doth He deign 
Such hints and precepts as the docile heart 
May comprehend. Sometimes in vision’d sleep, 
His Spirit hovereth o’er the plastic mind 


45 


Sealing instruction. Or a different voice 
Its sterner teaching tries. His vigor droops, 
Strong pain amid the multitude of bones 
Doth revel, till his soul abhorreth meat. 
His fair flesh wastes, and downward to the pit 
He hourly hastens. Holy Sympathy 
May aid to uphold him in its blessed arms 
Kindly interpreting the Will Divine, 
With angel tenderness. 

But if the God 
Whose gracious ear doth hear the sigh of prayer 
Baptized with dropping tears—perceives the cry 
Of humbled self-abasing penitence, 
He casts away the scourge—the end is gained. 
Fresh as a child’s, the wither’d flesh returns, 
And life, and health, and joy, are his once more. 
With discipline like this, He often tries 
The creatures He hath made, to crush the seeds 
Of pride, and teach that lowliness of soul 
Befitting them, and pleasing in His sight. 


Oh Man of Uz—if thou hast aught to add 
Unto thy argument—I pray thee, speak! 
Fain would I justify thee. 

Is it well 
To combat Him who hath the right to reign ? 
Or even to those who fill an earthly throne 
And wear a princely diadem, to say, 


Ye are unjust ? 
5 


46 


But how much less to Him 
The fountain of all power, who heedeth not 
Karth’s vain distinctions, nor regards the rich 
More than the poor, for all alike are dust 
And ashes in His sight. 

Is it not meet 
For those who bear His discipline, to say 
I bow submissive to the chastening Hand 
That smites my inmost soul? Oh teach me that 
Which through my blindness I have failed to see, 
For I have sinn’d, but will offend no more. 
Say, is it right, Oh Job, for thee to hold 
Thyself superior to the All-Perfect Mind? 
If thou art righteous what giv’st thou to Him 
Who sits above the heavens? Can He receive 
Favor from mortals ? 

Open not thy mouth 
To multiply vain words, but rather bow 
Unto the teaching of His works that spread 
So silently around. His snows descend 
And make the green Harth hoary. Chains of frost 
Straighten her breadth of waters. Dropping rains 
Refresh her summer thirst, or rending clouds 
Roll in wild deluge o’er her. Roaming beasts 
Cower in their dens affrighted, while she quakes 
Convuls’d with inward agony, or reels 
Dizzied with flashing fires. 

Again she smiles 
In her recovered beauty, at His will, 


47 


Maker of all things. So, He rules the world, 
With wrath commingling mercy. Who may hope 
With finite mind to understand His ways, 
So excellent in power, in wisdom deep, 
In justice terrible, respecting none 
Who pride themselves in fancied wisdom.” 
Hark ! 
On the discursive speech a whirlwind breaks, 
Tornadoes shake the desert, thunders roll 
And from the lightning’s startled shrine, a voice / 
The voice of the Eternal. 
“Who is this 
That darkeneth knowledge by unmeaning words? 
Gird up thy loins and answer. 
Where wert thou 
When the foundations of the earth were laid? 
Who stretch’d the line, and fix’d the corner-stone, 
When the bright morning-stars together sang 
~ And all the hosts that circle round the Throne 
Shouted for joy? . 
Whose hand controll’d the sea 
When it brake forth to whelm the new-fram’d world? 
Who made dark night its cradle and the cloud 
Its swaddling-band ? commanding 
‘Hitherto 
Come, but no further. At this line of sand 
Stay thy proud waves.” 
Hast thou call’d forth the morn 
From the empurpled chambers of the east, 


48 


Or bade the trembling day-spring know its place? 
Have Orion’s depths been open’d to thy view ? 
And hast thou trod his secret floor? or seen 
The gates of Death’s dark shade? 

Where doth light dwell ? 
And ancient Darkness, that with Chaos reign’d 
Before Creation? Dost thou know the path 
Unto their house, because thou then wert born? 
And is the number of thy days so great? 
Show me the treasure-house of snows. Unlock 
The mighty magazines of hail, that wait 
The war of elements. 

Who hath decreed 
A water-course for embryo fountain springs? 
Mark’d out the lightning’s path and bade the rain 
O’erlook not in its ministries the waste 
And desolate plain, but wake the tender herb 
To cheer the bosom of the wilderness. 
Tell me the father of the drops of dew, 
The curdling ice, and hoary frost that seal 
The waters like a stone, and change the deep 
To adamant. 

Bind if thou canst, the breath 
And balmy influence of the Pleiades. 
Bring forth Mazzaroth in his time, or guide 
Arcturus, with his sons. 

Canst thou annul 
The fix’d decree that in their spheres detain 
The constellations? Will the lightnings go 


49 


Forth on thine errands, and report to thee 
As loyal vassals ? 
' Who in dying clay 
Infused the immortal principle of mind, 
And made them fellow-workers ? 

If thou canst 
Number the flying clouds, and gather back 
Their falling showers, when parch’d and cleaving earth 
Implores their charity. Wilt hunt the prey 
With the stern forest-king? or dare invade 
The darkened lair where his young lions couch 
Ravenous with hunger? 

Who the ravens feeds 
When from the parent’s nest hurl’d out, they ery 
And all forsaken, ask their meat from God? 
Know’st thou the time when the wild goats endure 
The mother-sorrow ? how their offspring grow 
Healthful and strong, uncared for, and unstall’d ? 
Who made the wild ass like the desert free, 
Scorning the rein, and from the city’s bound 
Turning triumphant to the wilderness ? 
Lead to thy crib the unicorn, and bind 
His unbow’d sinews to the furrowing plough, 
And trust him if thou canst to bring thy seed 
Home to the garner, 

Who the radiant plumes 
Gave to the peacock? or the winged speed 
That bears the headlong ostrich far beyond 


The baftled steed’ and rider? not withheld 
5* 


50 


By the instinctive tenderness that chains 
The brooding bird, she scatters on the sands 
Her unborn hopes, regardless though the foot 
May trampling crush them. 

Hast thou given the Horse 
His glorious strength, and clothed his arching neck 
With thunder? At the armed host he mocks,— 
The rattling quiver, and the glittering spear. 
Prancing and proud, he swalloweth the ground 
With rage, and passionate desire to rush 
Into the battle. At the trumpet’s sound, 
And shouting of the captains, he exults, 
Drawing the stormy terror with delight 
Into his fearless spirit. 

Doth the Hawk 
In her migrations counsel ask of Thee? 
Mounts the swift Eagle up at thy command ? 
Making her nest among the star-girt cliffs, 
And thence undazzled by the vertic sun 
Scanning the molehills of the earth, or motes 
That o’er her bosom move. 

Say,—wilt thou teach 
Creative Wisdom? or contend with Him 
The Almighty,—ordering all things at His will?” 


Then there was silence, till the chastened One 
Murmured as from the dust, 


51 


‘Lo, Iam vile! 
What shall I answer thee ?—I lay my hand 
Upon my mouth. Once have I dared to speak, 
But would be silent now, forevermore.” 


—Yet still, in thunder, from the whirlwind’s wing, 
Jehovah’s voice demanded,— 
“Wilt thou dare 
To disannul my judgments? and above 
Unerring wisdom, and unbounded power 


Exalt thine own ? ; 
Hast thou an arm like mine? 


Array thyself in majesty, and look 

On all the proud in heart, and bring them low,— 
Yea, deck thyself with glory, cast abroad 

The arrows of thine anger, and abase 

The arrogant, and send the wicked down 

To his own place, sealing his face like stone 

Deep in the dust; for then will I confess 

Thy might, and that thine own right hand hath power 


To save thyself. 
Hast seen my Behemoth, 


Who on the grassy mountains finds his food ? 
And ’neath the willow boughs, and reeds, disports 
His monstrous bulk ? 

His bones like brazen bars, 
His iron sinews cased in fearful strength 
Resist attack! Lo! when he slakes his thirst 
The rivers dwindle, and he thinks to draw 
The depths of Jordan dry. 


UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY. 


52 


Wilt cast thy hook 

And take Leviathan? Wilt bind thy yoke 
Upon him, as a vassal? Will he cringe 
Unto thy maidens ? 

See the barbed spear 
The dart and the habergeon, are his scorn. 
Sling-stones are stubble, keenest arrows foil’d, 
And from the plaited armor of his scales 
The glittering sword recoils. Where he reclines, 
Who is so daring as to rouse him up, 
With his cold, stony heart, and breath of flame? 
Or to the cavern of his gaping jaws 
Thick set with teeth, draw near ? 

The Hand alone 
That made him can subdue his baleful might.” 


Jehovah ceas’d,—for the Omniscient Eye 
That scans the inmost thought of man, discern’d 
Its work completed in that lowliness 
Of deep humility which fits the soul 
For heavenly intercourse, and renovates 
The blessed image of obedient love 
That Eden forfeited. 

Out of the depths 
Of true contrition sigh’d a trembling tone 
In utter abnegation, 

‘“T repent! 
In dust and ashes. I abhor myself.” 


53 


—Thus the returning prodigal who cries 
Unclothed and empty, ‘‘ Father! I have sinn’d, 
And am not worthy to be called thy son,” 
Finds full forgiveness, and a free embrace, 
While the best robe his shrinking form enfolds. 


But with this self-abasement toward his God 
Job mingled tenderest regard for man. 
No longer with indignant warmth he strove 
Against his false accusers, or retained 
Rankling remembrance of the enmity 
That vexed his wounded soul 

With earnest prayers 
And offerings, he implored offended Heaven 
To grant forgiveness to those erring friends, 
Paying with love the alienated course 
Of their misguided minds. 

Heaven heard his voice, 
And with that intercession sweet, return’d 
The sunbeams of his lost prosperity. 
Back came his buried joys. They had no power 
To harm a soul subdued. The refluent tide 
Of wealth swept o’er him. On his many hills 
Gathered the herds, and o’er his pastures green 
Sported the playful lambs. .The tuneful voice 
Of children fill’d his desolate home with joy, 
And round his household board their’ beauty gleam’d, 
Making his spirit glad. 


54 


So full of days, 
While twice our span of threescore years and ten, 
Mark’d out its silvery chronicle of moons 
Still to his knee his children’s children climb’d 
To hear the wisdom he had learned of God 
Through the strong teaching both of joy and woe. 


Nor had this sublunary scene alone, 
Witness’d his trial. Doubt ye not that forms 
To earth invisible were hovering near 
With the sublime solicitude of Heaven. 
For he, the bold, bad Spirit, in his vaunting pride 
Of impious revolt, had dared to say 
Unto the King of Kings, 
“Stretch forth thy hand 
And take away all that he hath, and Job 
Will curse Thee to Thy face.” 
Methinks we hear 
An echo of angelic harmony 
From that blest choir who struck their harps with joy 
That from the Tempter’s ordeal he had risen 
An unhurt victor. Round the Throne they pour’d 
Their gratulations that the born of clay 
Tho’ by that mystery bow’d which ever veils 
The inscrutable counsels of the All-Perfect One, 
Might with the chieftain of the Rebel Host 
Cope unsubdued and heavenward hold his way. 


. THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND. 


EN ER OD UC EE ON. 


Iv may be thought that the following poem, especially its 

opening Canto is too minute and circumstantial in its descrip- 
tions. Yet the habitudes of a past and peculiar generation, 
fast fading from remembrance, are worthy of being pre- 
served, though little accordant with romance, perhaps with 
poetry. So rapid has been our progress as a people, that 
dimness gathers over the lneaments of even our immediate 
ancestry. Yet traits at one period despised, or counted 
obsolete, may at another be diligently sought after and 
re-juyenated. 

It has been observed that nations reaching their zenith, 
regard with more complacency their rising morn, than the 
approaching west. France, notwithstanding the precision 
given to her language by Richilieu, and the Academy, turns 


back affectionately to her Troubadours and Trouvires, to 
6 


58 


the long-drawn, scarce-readable ‘‘ Romance of the Rose,” and 
the itinerant Chronicles of Froissart. England is not indif- 
ferent to Anglo-Saxon traditions, or the customs of her 
Norman dynasty. 
A time may arrive when our posterity will not scorn to be 
reminded of the primitive usages of their rural fathers. 


To that time, and to unborn readers, this simple poem is 
dedicated. 


aS pele bE 


THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND. 


CANTO FIRST. 


PEACEFUL is the rural life, made strong by healthful industry, 

Firm in love of the birth-land, and the laws that govern it, 

Calm through moderated desires and a primitive simplicity, 

Walking filially with Nature as the Patriarchs walked with 
God. 

Such have I beheld it in my native vales, green and elm- 
shaded. 

Such hath it been depicted in their legends who went before 
me ; 

What therefore, I have seen and heard, declare I unto you 

In measures artless and untuneful. 

Fearless of hardship, 

In costume, as in manners, unadorn’d and homely 

Were our ancestral farmers, the seed-planters of a strong 
nation. 

Congenial were their wives, not ashamed of the household 
charge, 

Yoke-fellows that were help-meets, vigorous and of a good 
courage } 


60 


Revolting not at life’s plain intent, but its duties discharging 

Patiently, lovingly, and with true faith looking upward. 

- Thence came the rudiments of an inflexible people 

Whose praise is in themselves. 

Hail to the ancient farmer ! 

Broad-shouldered as Ajax—deep-chested through commerce 
with free air, 

Not enervated by luxury, nor care-worn with gold-counting, 

Content with his lot, by pride and envy unvisited. 

Muscular was his arm, laying low the kings of the forest, 

Uncouth might be his coat, and his heavy shoes, Vestris 

flouted, 

At the grasp of his huge hand, the dainty belle might have 
shuddered. 

Yet blessings on his bronzed face, and his warm, honest heart, 

Whose well-rooted virtues were the strength and stay of 
republics. 


True independence was his, earth and sky being his bankers, 

Bills drawn on them, endorsed by toil were never protested. 

Bathed in vernal dews was his glistening plough-share, 

Birds, newly-returned, the merry nest-builders, bade him 
good morrow, 

Keenly wrought his scythe in summer, where fell the odor- 
ous clover, 

Clear was his song at autumn-husking, amid piles of golden 
corn. 

Winter saw him battling the drifted snows, with his oxen, 


61 


Bearing to the neighboring town, fuel that gladden’d the 
hearth-stone. 

Deep in undisturbed beds then slept the dark-featured anthra- 
cite, 

Steam not having armed itself to exterminate the groves, 

Layishly offering them as a holocaust to winged horses of 
iron, 

Like Moloch, cruel god, dooming the beautiful to the flame. 


Independent was the farmer, the food of his household 
being sure ; 

With the fields of waving grain; with the towering tassell’d 
maize ; 

With the herds, moving homeward, bearing their creamy 
nectar ; 

He saw, and gather’d it, giving thanks to the bountiful 
Father. 

Among the lambs sporting in green pastures, among the 
feathery people, 

Among the fruit-laden branches, he beheld it also ; 

Under the earth, on the earth, in the air, ripen’d his three- 
fold crop. 

Swelling in the cluster’d vine, and the roots of the teeming 
garden, 

The Garden—precious spot! which God deign’d to bless at 
the beginning, 

Placing therein Man, made after his own glorious image, 

To dress it and to keep it. 

6§* 


62 


Hail, to the ancient farmer, 

Naught to him the fall of stocks that ‘turns pale the specu- 
lator, 

Naught to him the changes of trade, wrinkling the brow of 
the merchant, 

Naught to him, the light weight, or exorbitant price of the 
baker ; 

_ Sure was his bread, howsoe’er the markets might fluctuate, 

Sweet loaves of a rich brown, plentifully graced his table, 

Made by the neat hand of wife or daughter, happy in health- 
ful toil. | . 

Skilfully wrought the same hands, amid the treasures of the 
dairy, 

Rich cheeses, and masses of golden butter, and bowls of fra- 
grant milk 

Not doled out warily, as by city dames, but to all, free and 
flowing ; 

Woman’s right it was, to crown the board with gifts of her 
own preparing ; 

Rights not disputed, not clamored for in public assemblies, 

But conceded by approving Love, whose manliness threw 
around her 

A cherishing protection, such as God willed in Paradise. 


Dense was the head of the Maple, and in summer of a lus- 
trous green, 

Yet earliest in autumn, among all trees of the forest, 

To robe itself in scarlet, like a cardinal going to conclave. 

Subjected was it in spring, to a singular phlebetomy ; 


63 


Tubes inserted through its bark, drew away the heart’s sweet 
blood, 

Pore after pore emptying itself, till the great arteries were 
exhausted. 

Fires then blazed amid the thickets, like the moveable camp 
of the gipsies, 

And in boiling kettles, fiercely eddying, struggled the caloric, 

With gases, and the saccharine spirit, until the granulated 
sugar, 

Showed a calm, brown face, welcome to the stores of the 
housewife ; 

Moulded also into small cakes, it formed the favorite confec- 
tion 

Of maiden and swain, during the long evenings of courtship. 


Gamboling among wild flowers, gadded the honey-bee, 

Bending down their innocent heads, with a buzzing lore of 
flattery, 

Beguiling them of their essences, which with tireless alacrity, 

Straightway deposited he in his cone-roof’d banking-house, 

Subtle financier—thinking to take both dividend and capital. 

But failing in his usury, for duly cometh the farmer, 

Despoiling him of his hoard, yea! haply of his life also. 

Stern was the policy of the olden times, to that diligent in- 
sect, 

Not skill’d like our own, to confiscate a portion of his earn- 
ings, 

Leaving life and limb unscathed for future enterprise. 


- 


64 


Welcome were the gifts of that winged chemist to a primi- 
tive people. 

Carefully cloistered in choice vases, was the pure, virgin 
honey, 

Sacred to honor’d guests, or a balm to the sore-throated in- 
valid. 

Dealt out charily, was the fair comb to the gratified little 
ones, ye 

Or, to fermentation yielded, producing the spirited metheglin. 

Not scorn’d by the bee-masters, were even those darken’d 
hexagons 

Where slumber’d the dead like the coral-builders in reefy 
cell. 

Even these to a practical use devoted the clear-sighted 
matron, 

Calling forth from cavernous sepulchres cheerful light for 
the living. 

Cleansed and judiciously mingled with an oleagenous ele- 
ment, 

Thus drew she from the mould, waxen candles, whose gold- 
tinted beauty 

Crown’d proudly the mantel-piece, reserved for bettermost 
occasions, 

Unheard of, then, was the gas, with briliant jet and gorgeous 
chandelier, | 

Nor hunted they from zone to zone, with barbed harpoon 
the mighty whale, 

Making the indignant monarch of ocean, their flambeau and 
link-boy: 


65 


For each household held within itself, its own fountain of 
light. 

Faithful was the rural housewife, taking charge of all in- 
trusted things, | 

Prolonging the existence of whatever needed repair, 

Requiring children to respect the property of their parents, 

Not to waste or destroy, but be grateful for food and cloth- 


ing ; 
Teaching them industry, and the serious value of fleeting 
time, * 


Strict account of which must be rendered to the Master and 
Giver of Life. 

Prudence was then held in esteem and a laudable economy 

Not jeered at by miserly names, but held becoming in all, 

For the poor, that they might avoid debt; and the rich that 
they might be justly generous. 


Ho! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly 


green,— 
Ho! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their 
master,— 
Woman’s hand shall transmute both, into armor for those 
she loves, 


Wrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in 
calm content. 

Hark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron, 

Hymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle 


melodies. 


66 


Back and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom 
damsel, 

Best form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscle 

Regularly and to good purpose, filling the blue veins with 
richer blood. 

Rapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll, 

Not by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly 
away, | 

But with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed, 

Of wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a 
silky lustre, 

It greeteth the fingers of the spinner. 

In this Hygeian concert 
Leader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel’s tireless 
tenor, 

Drowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill- 
wheels fitful symphony, 

Whose whirring strings, yielded to children’s hands, prepare 
spools for the shuttle. 

At intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the 
loam, 

Cumbrous, and filling a large space, with its quantity of 
timber, 

Obedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew 
more vigorous, | 

From its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and 
substantial, oe: 

Linen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of 
summer, 


67 


Frocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue 
for the younglings; 

Stout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry 
elements. 

From the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown 
complexion, 

Or the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern 
indigo. 

Thus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music, 

As History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp. 

Kars trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance 
to be mocked at, , 

But the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his 
country, 

Not sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France; 

While the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of 
a peaceful Land, 

Giving praise to Jehovah. 

Lo! at the winter evening 

In these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort! 

Large hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample 
chimney, 

Tinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad 
hearth-stone. 

King and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted 
farmer. 

At his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth 
the children. 


68 


Sheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of 
honor, 

Calm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother. 

Clustering around her, watching the stocking that she knits, 
are the little ones, 

Loving the stories that she tells of the days when she was a 
maiden, 

Stories ever mix’d with lessons of a reverent piety. 

Manna do they thus gather to feed on, when their hair is 
hoary. 

Stretch’d before the fire, is the weary, rough-coated house- 
dog, 

Winking his eyes, full of sleep, at the baby, seated on his 
shoulder, 

Proudly watching his master’s darling, and the pet of the 
family, 

As hither and thither on its small feet it toddles unsteadily. 


On the straight-back’d oaken settle, congregate the older 
children. 

Work have they, or books, and sometimes the weekly news- 
paper, 

Grey, on coarse, crumpled paper, and borrowed from house 
to house, 

Small-sized, yet precious, and read through from beginning 
to end, 

Bright, young heads circling close, peering together over its 
columns. 

Now and then, furtive glances reconnoitre the ingle-side, 


69 


Where before a bed of coals, rows of red apples are roasting, 

Spitting out their life-juices spitefully, in unwilling martyr- 
dom. 

Finished, and drawn back, the happy group wait a brief 
interval, 

Thinking some neighbor Sits chance to come in and bid 
them good even, 

Heightening their simple refection, for whose sake would be 
joyously added 

The mug of sparkling cider passed temperately from lip to lip, 

Sufficient and accepted offering of ancient, true-hearted hos- 
pitality. 

Thus in colonial times dwelt they together as brethren, 

Taking part in each others’ concerns with an undissembled 
sympathy. 


But when the tall old clock told out boldly three times 
three, 

Thrice the number of the graces, thrice the number of the 
fates, 

The full number of the Muses, the hour dedicated to Mor- 
pheus, 

At that curfew departed the guest, and all work being sus: 
pended, 

Laid aside was the grandmother’s knitting-bag, for in its 
cradle 

Rock’d now and then by her foot, already slumbered the baby. 


- Then, ere the fading brands were covered with protecting 
ashes, 


- 


SS 


70 


Rose the prayer of the Sire, amid his treasured and trusted 
ones, 

Rose his thanks for past blessings, his petitions for the future, 

His committal of all care to Him who careth for his creatures, 

Overlooking nothing that His bountiful Hand hath created. 


Orderly were the households of the farmer, not given to idle 
merriment, 

Honoring the presence of parents, as of tutelary spirits. 

To be obedient and useful were the first lessons of the young 
children, 

Well learned and bringing happiness, that ruled on sure 
foundations, 

Respect for authority, being the initial of God’s holy fear. 

Modern times might denounce such a system as tyrannical, 

Asking the blandishments of indulgence, and a broader hb- 
erty ; 

Leaving in perplexing doubt, the mind of the infant stranger 

Whether to rule or to be ruled he came hither on his untried 
journey, 

Rearing him in headstrong ignorance, revolting at discipline, 

Heady, high-minded, and prone to speak evil of dignities. 


Welcome was Winter, to the agriculturist of olden times, 

Then, while fruitful Earth, with whom he was in league, held 
her sabbath, 

Knowledge entered into his soul. At the lengthened evening, 

Read he in an audible voice to his listening family 

Grave books of History, or elaborate Theology, 

Taxing thought and memory, but not setting fancy on tiptoe 


fas 


Teaching reverence for wise men, and for God, the Giver of 


Wisdom. 

Not then had the era arrived, when of making books there 
is no end. 

Painfully the laboring press, brought forth like the kingly 
whale 


One cub at a time, guiding it carefully over the billows, 

Watching with pride and pleasure, its own wonderful off- 
spring. 

A large, fair volume, was in those days, as molten gold, 

Touched only with clean hands, and by testators willed to 
their heirs. 


Winter also, brought the school for the boys,—released from 
farm-labor. 

Karly was the substantial breakfast, in those short, frosty 
mornings, 

That equipped in season, might be the caravan for its enter- 
prise, 

Punctuality in those simple times being enrolled among the 
virtues. 

There they go! a rosy group, bearing in small baskets their 
dinner ; 

Plunging thro’ all snow-drifts, the boys,—on all ices sliding 
the girls, 

Yet leaving not the straight path, lest tardy should be their 
arrival. 

Lone on the bleak hill-side, stood the unpainted village 
school-house, 


72 


Winds taking aim at it like a target, smoke belching from 
its chimney, 

Bare to the fiery suns of summer, like the treeless Nan- 
tucket. 

Desks were ranged under the windows where on high 
benches without backs . 

Sate the little ones, their feet vainly reaching toward the dis- 
tant floor, 

Commanded everlastingly to keep still and to be still, 

As if immobility were the climax of all excellence ; 

Hard lesson for quick nerves, and eyes searching for some- 
thing new. 

Nature endowed them with curiosity, but man wiser than she 

Calling himself a teacher, would fain stiffen them into 
statues. 

No bright visions of the school-palaces of future days 

With seats of ease, and carpets, and pianos, and pictured 
walls, 

And green lawns, pleasantly shaded, stretching wide for play, 

And knowledge fondling her pets, and unveiling her royal 
road, 

Gleam’d before them as Eden, kindling smiles on their 
thoughtful faces. 


Fayvor’d were the elder scholars with more congenial tasks : 

Loudly read they in their classes, glorying in the noise they 
made, 

Busily over the slates moved the hard pencils, with a grat- 


ing sound, 


73 


Diligently on coarse paper wrote they, with quill pens, bushy 
topp’d, 

Blessed in having lived, ere the metallic stylus was invented. 

Rang’d early around the fire, have been their frozen ink- 
stands, 

Where in rotation sits each scholar briefly, by the master’s 
leave, 

Roasting on one side, and on the other a petrefaction, 

Keen blasts through the crevices delighting to whistle and 
mock them. 

Patient were the children, not given to murmuring or com- 
plaining, 

Learning through privation, lessons of value for a future 
life, 

Subjection, application, and love of knowledge for itself 
alone. 

On a high chair, sate the solemn Master, watchful of all 
things, 

Absolute was his sway and in this authority he gloried, 

Conforming it much to the Spartan rule, and the code of 
Solomon, 

Showing no mercy to idleness, or wrong uses of the slippery 
tongue : | 

Yet to diligent students kind, and of their proficiency 
boastful, 

Exhibiting their copy-books, to committee-man and visitant, 

Or calling out the declaimers, in some stentorian dialogue. 

Few were the studies then pursued, but thoroughness re- 


quired in all, 
7* 


74 


Surface-work not being in vogue, nor rootless blossoms re- 
garded. 

Especially well-taught was the orthography of our copious 
language, 

False spelling being as a sin to be punished by the judges. 

Tn this difficult attainment the master sometimes accorded 

A form of friendly conflict sought with ardor as a premium, 

Stirring the belligerent element, ever strong in boyish na- 
tures. 

Forth came at close of the school-day, two of reproachless 
conduct, 

Naming first the best spellers, they proceeded to choose al- 
ternately, 

Till all, old and young, ranging under opposite banners, 

Drawn up as in battle array, each other stoutly confronted. 

Rapidly given out by the leaders to their marshall’d forces, 

Word by word, with its definition, was the allotted lesson, 

Vociferously answered from each side like discharges of 
artillery ; 

Fatal was the slightest mistake, fatal even pause or hesi- 
tation, 

Doubt was for the vanquished, to deliberate was to be lost. 

Drooping with disgrace down sate each discomfited pupil, 

Bravely stood the perfect, the most unbroken line gaining 
the victory. 

Not unboastful were the conquerers, cheered with shouts on 
their homeward way, 3 

Crest-fallen were the defeated, yet eager for a future contest. 

Strong elements thus enlisted, gave new vigor to mental toil, 


75 


As the swimmer puts forth more force till the rapids are 
overpast. 

Dear to the persevering, were those schools of the olden time, 

Respected were the teachers, who with majestic austerity, 

Dispensed without favoritism, a Lacedamonian justice. 

Learning was not then loved for luxury, like a lady for her 
gold, 

But testing her worshippers by trial, knew who sought her 
for herself. 


Not given to frequent feasting was the home-bred farmer of 
New England, 

Parties, and the popular lectures swelled not his code of 
enjoyments, 

One banquet, climax of his Boniviital delight, was the yearly 
thanksgiving, 

Substituted by puritan settlers for the Christmas of the 
Mother-Clime, 

Keeping in memory the feast of ingathering, of the Ancient 
Covenant People ; 

Drear November was its appointed season, when earth’s 
bounty being garnered, 

Man might rest from his labors, and praise the Lord of the 
Harvest. 

Such was its original design, but the tendencies of Saxonism, 

Turn’d it more to eating and drinking, than devotional re- 
membrance. 

Yet blessed was the time, summoning homeward every wan- 

eeTe!’: 


76 


Back came the city apprentice, and from her service place 
the damsel, 

Back came the married daughter to the father’s quiet hearth- 
stone, 

Wrapped warmly in her cloak is a babe, its eyes full of 
wonder,— 

Hand in hand, walked the little ones, bowing low before the 
grandparents, 

Meekly craving their blessing, for so had they been piously 
taught. 

Back to the birth-spot, to the shadow of their trees 
ancestral, 

Came they like joyous streams, to their first untroubled 
fountain, 

Knowing better how to prize it, from the rocks that had 
barred their course. 

In primitive guise, journeyed homeward those dispersed ones. 

Rare, in these days, was the carriage, or stage-coach for the 
traveller ; 

Roads, unmacadamized, making rude havoc of delicate 
springs. 

Around the door, horses gather with the antique side-saddle 
and pillion, 

Led thence to the full barn, while their riders find heartfelt 


welcome. 


Then all whom culinary cares release, hasten to the House 
of Worship, 

Religion being invoked to sanction the rejoicing of the 
fathers. 


77 


Plain was the village-church, a structure of darkened wood, 

Having doors on three sides, and flanked by sheds for the 
horses, 

Guiltless of blackening stove-pipe, or the smouldering fires 
of the furnace. 

Assaulted oft were its windows, by the sonorous North- 
Western, 

Making organ-pipes in the forest, for its shrill improvisations 

Patient of cold, sate the people, each household in its own 
square pew, 

Palisaded above the heads of the children, imprisoning their 
roving eyes. 

Patiently sate the people, while from ’neath the great sound- 
ing-board, 

The preacher unfolded his sermon, like the many-headed 
cauliflower. 

Grave was the good pastor, not prone to pamper animal 
appetites, 

But mainly intent to deal with that which is immortal. 

Prolx might he have been deemed, save by the flock he 
euided, 

Who duteously accounted him but a little lower than the 
angels. 


As solemn music to the sound of his monotonous periods 

Listened attentively the young, until he slowly enunciated 

Fifteenthly, in the division of his elaborate discourse. 

Then gadded away their busy thoughts to the Thanksgiving 
dinner, 


Visioning good things to come. 


78 


At length, around the table, 

Duly bless’d by the Master of the feast, they cheerily as- 
semble. 

Before him, as his perquisite, and prerogative to carve: 

In a lordly dish smokes the huge, well-browned Turkey, 

Chickens were there, to whose innocent lives Thanksgiving 
is ever a death-knell ; 

Luscious roasters from the pen, the large ham of a red com- 
plexion, 

Garnish’d and intermingled with varied forms of vegetable 
wealth. 

Ample pasties were attached, and demolished with dex- 
terity, 

Custards and tarts, and compounds of the golden-faced 
pumpkin, 

Prime favorite, without whose aid, scarcely could New Eng- 
land have been thankful. 

Apples, with plump, waxen cheeks, chestnuts, and the fruit 
of the hickory, 

Bisected neatly, without fragment, furnished the simple des- 
sert, 

Finale to that festival where each guest might be safely 
merry. 

Hence, by happy-hearted children, was it hailed as the pole- 
star, | 

Toward which Memory looked backward six months, and 
Hope forward for six to come, 

Dating reverently from its era, as the Moslem from his 
Hegira. 


79 


Hymen also hailed it as his revenue, and crowning time; 

Bachelors wearied with the restraints that courtship im- 
poses, 

Longed for it, as the Israelite for the jubilee of release, 

And many a householder, in his family-bible marked its date 

As the day of his espousals, and of the gladness of his heart. 


Content was the life of agriculture, in unison with that 
wisest prayer | 

“ Thy will be done.” Wisest, because who, save the Eternal 

Knoweth what is best for man, walking ignorantly among 
shadows, 

Himself a shadow, not ike Adam our father in Paradise, 

Rightly naming all things, but calling evil, good, and good, 
evil, 

Blindly blaming the discipline that might bless him ever- 
lastingly, 

And embracing desires, that in their bosom hide the dageér 
of Ehud. 

Asketh he for honor? In its train are envyings and cares; 

Wealth? It may drown the soul in destruction and perdi- 
tion ; 

Power? Lo! it casteth on some lone St. Helena to die: 

Surely, safest of all petitions, is that of our blessed Saviour,— 

“Not my will but Thine.” 


Thus, as it was in the days before us, 
Rural life in New-England, with its thrift, and simplicity, 


80 


Minutely have I depicted, not emulous of embellishment. 

More of refinement might it boast when our beautiful birth- 
clime, 

From the colonial chrysalis emerging, spread her wing 
among the nations. 

Then rose an aristocracy, founded not on wealth alone 

That winds may scatter like desert sands, or the floods wash 
away, 

But on the rock of solid virtue, where securely anchors the 
soul. 


Mid its cultured acres rose gracefully a dwelling of the better 
class, 

Large, but not lofty, its white walls softened by surrounding 
shades, 

Fresh turf at its feet hke velvet, green boughs teanoie its 
head, 

Bannering, and dropping music, till the last rustle of the 
falling leaves. 

There, still in her comely prime, dwelt the lady of the 
mansion. 

Moderate would her fortune be held in these days that count 
by millions, 

Yet rich was she, because having no debts, what seemed to 
be hers, was so ; 

Rich, in having a surplus for the poor, which she gladly 
imparted ; 

Rich too, through Agriculture, pursued less from need than 
habit. 


81 


Habit mingled with satisfaction, and bringing health in its 
train. 

Early widowhood had touched her brow with sadness such 
as time bringeth, 

Yet in her clear eye was a fortitude, surmounting adversity. 

Busy were her maidens, and happy, their right conduct kindly 
approved, 

Busy also the swains thro’ whose toil her fields yielded 

increase, _ 

Respect had she for labor; knowing both what to require, 
and when it was well performed, 

Readily rendering full wages, with smiles and words of 
counsel, 

Accounting those who served her, friends, entitled to advice 
and sympathy. 

Thus, looking well to the ways of her household, and from 
each expecting their duty, 

Wisely divided she her time, and at intervals of leisure, 

Books allured her cultured mind through realms of thought 
and knowledge. 


But the deepest well-spring of her joys, not yet hath been 


unfolded, 

A fountain where care and sorrow forgot both their name 
and nature. 

Two little daughters, lke olive plants, grew beside that 
fountain, 


One, with dark, deepset eyes, and wealth of raven tresses, 
The other gleaming as a sunbeam, through her veil of 


golden hair, 
8 


82 


With a.glance like living sapphire, making the beholder glad. 

Clinging to the sweet mother’s hand, smiling when she 
smiled, 3 

If she were sad, grieving also, they were her blessed com- 
forters, 

Morn and Even were they styled by admiring, fanciful 
visitants, 

So “the evening and the morning, were to her soul the first 
day,” 

After the heavy midnight of her weeping and widowhood. 


Side by side, in sweet liberty hither and thither roamed those 
little ones, 

Hunting violets on the bank, tasting cheese curds in the 
dairy, 

Seeking red and white strawberries, as ripening they ran in 
the garden beds, 

To fill the small basket for their mother, covering the fruit 
with rose-buds, 

Peering archly to see if she would discover what was lurking 
beneath. 

Gamboling with the lambs, shouting as the nest-builders 
darted by, | 
Sharing in the innocence of one, and catching song from the 

other. 


Nightly on the same snowy pillow, were laid their beautiful 
heads, 


The same morning beam kiss’d away their lingering slum- 
bers, 


83 


The first object that met their waking eye, was the bright, 
sisterly smile. 
One impulse moved both hearts, as kneeling by their little 


bed, 

Breathed forth from ruby lips, ‘Our Father, who art in 
Heaven!” 

Simple homage, meekly blending in a blessed stream of in- 
cense. 


Forth went they among the wild flowers, making friendship 
with the dragon-fly, 

With the ant in her circling citadel, with the spider at her 
silk-loom, 

Talking to the babbling brook, speaking kindly to the un- 
couth terrapin, 

And frog, who to them seem’d dancing joyously in watery 
halls. 

Like the chirping of the ‘wood-robin murmured their tune- 
ful voices, 

Or rang out in merry laughter, gladdening the ear of the 
Mother, 

Who when she heard it afar off, laughed also, not knowing 
wherefore. 


Thus, in companionship with Nature, dwelt they, growing 
each day more happy, 

Loving all things that she cherish’d, and loved by her in 
return, 

Yet not idly pass’d their childhood, in New England’s creed 
that were heresy, 


84 


Promptly, as strength permitted, followed they examples of 
industry, 

Lovingly assisting the Mother wherever her work might be. 

Surprising was it to see what their small hands could accom- 
plish, 

Without trespassing on the joy of childhood, that precious 
birthright of life. 

_ Diligently wrought they in summer, at the dame’s school 
with plodding needle, 

Docile at their lessons in winter, stood they before the 
Master : 

Yet learning most from Home and Mother, those schools for 
the heart, 

Befitting best that sex, whose sphere of action is in the heart. 

Attentive were they to the Parents’ rule, and to the open 
book of Nature, 

Teachers, whose faithful pupils shall be wise towards God. 


Different were the two.daughters, though to the same disci- 
pline subjected. 

Grave was the elder born and thoughtful, even beyond her 
years, 

Night upon her tresses, but the star of morning in her heart. 

Exceeding fair was the younger, and witty, and full of grace, 

Winning with her sunny ringlets, the notice of all beholders. 

Different also were their temperaments, one loving like the 
Violet d 

Shaded turf, where the light falls subdued through shelter- 
ing branches, 


85 


The other, as the Tulip, exulting in the lustrous noontide, 

And the prerogatives of beauty, to see, and to be seen. 

Sweet was it to behold them, when the sun grew low in 
summer, 

Riding gracefully through the green-wood, each on her amb- 
ling palfrey, 

One, white as milk, and the other like shining ebony, 

For so in fanciful love had the Mother selected for her darlings. 

Sweet was it to mark them, side by side, in careless beauty, 

Looking earnestly in each others’ faces, thought playfully 
touching thought. 


Chief speaker was Miranda, ever fearless and most fluent. 

“Tired am I of always seeing the same dull, old scenes. 

I wish the rail-fences would tumble down, and the sprawl- 
ing apple-trees,— 

And the brown farm-houses take unto themselves wings and 
fly away, 

Like the wild-geese in autumn, if only something might be 
new. 

There’s the Miller forever standing on that one same spot of 
ground, 

Watching his spouting wheel, when there’s water, and when 
there is none, | 

Grumbling, I suppose, at home, to his spiritless wife and 
daughters. 

I like not that fusty old Miller, his coat covered with meal, 

Ever tugging at bags, and shoveling corn into the hopper.” 

8* 


86 


Discreetly answer’d Bertha, and the lively one responded, 

Lively, and quick-sighted, yet prone to be restless and un- 
satisfied, 

‘Counting rain-drops as they fall, one by one, from sullen 
branches. 

Seeing silly lambkins leap, and the fan-tail’d squirrels scam- 
per, 

What are such things to me? Stupid Agriculture I like 

: not, 

Soap-making, and the science of cheese-tubs, what are they 
to me? 

The chief end of life with these hinds and hindesses, 

Is methinks, to belabor their hands, till they harden like 
brick-bats.” 


“Look, look, Miranda, dearest! The new moon sweetly ris- 
ing 

Holdeth forth her silver crescent, which the loyal stars per- 
celving, | 

Gather gladly to her banner, like a host around their sove- 
reign. 

Let us find the constellations that our good Instructor 
taught us. 

Remember you not yesterday, when our lesson was well- 
render’d, 

How with unwonted flattery he call’d us his Hesperus and 
Aurora ?” 


‘These hum-drum teachings tire me, I’m disgusted with 
reciting | 


87 


And repeating, day by day, what I knew well enough 
before.” 

Then quickening briskly her startled steed with the riding- 
whip, 

She darted onward through the forest, reaching first their 
own abode. 


At night, when they retired, ere the waning lamp was 
extinguished, 

That good time for talking, when heart to heart discloseth 

What the work or the pride of day, might in secrecy have 
shrouded, 

Said Miranda, 

‘‘T have seen our early play-mate, Emilia, 

From a boarding-school return’d, all accomplished, all de- 
heghtful, 

So changed, so improved, her best friends might scarcely 
know her. 

Why might not I be favor’d with similar advantages? 

Caged here, year by year, with wings beating the prison- 
door ; 

I would fain go where she went. If overruled I shall be 
wretched. | 

I must go, Bertha, yes! No obstacle shall withhold me.” 


“Oh Miranda! Our Mother! In your company is her 
solace. 

In your young life she liveth, at your bright smile, ever 
smileth, 


88 


Such power have you to cheer her. What could she do 
without you 

When the lengthen’d eve grows lonely, and the widow 
sorrow presseth ?” 

“Oh persuade her!” she cried, with an embrace of passion- 
ate fervor, 

‘Persuade her, Bertha! and Ill be your bond-servant 
forever.” 

Seldom had a differing purpose ruffled long those sisterly 
bosoms. 

Wakeful lay Bertha, the silent tear for her companion, 

While frequent sighs swelling and heaving the snowy breast 
of Miranda, 

Betray’d that troubled visions held her spirit in their cus- 
tody. 


Like twin streamlets had they been, from one quiet fountain 
flowing, 

Stealing on through fringed margins, anon playfully diverg- 
Ing, 

Yet to each other as they wander’d, sending messages through 
whispering reeds, 

Then returning and entwining joyously, with their cool 


chrystalline arms. 


But who that from their source marketh infant brooklets 
issue, 


89 


Like sparkling threads of silver, wending onward through 
the distance 

Can foretell which will hold placid course among the vallies, 

Content with silent blessings from the fertile soil it cheereth, 

Or which, mid rocky channels contending and complaining, 

Now exulting in brief victory, then in darken’d eddies 
creeping, 

Leaps its rampart and is broken on the wheel of the cataract. 


Generous is the love and holy that springeth from gratitude ; 

Rooting not in blind instinct, grasping not, exacting not, 

Remembering the harvest on which it fed, and the toil of 
the harvester ; 

Fain would it render recompense according to what it hath 
received, 

Or falling short, weepeth. As the leaf of the white Lily 
Bendeth backward to the stalk whence its young bud drew 
nutrition, | 
So turneth the Love of Gratitude, with eye undimm’d and 

fervent, 
To parent, friend, teacher, benefactor, bountiful Creator. 
Sympathies derived from such sources ever sacredly cher- 
ishing ; 
Daughter of Memory, inheriting her mother’s immortality, 
Welcome shall she find among angels, where selfish love 
may not enter. 


CANTO SECOND. 


In the gay and crowded city 

Where the tall and jostling roof-trees 
Jealous seem of one another, 
Jealous of the ground they stand on, 
Each one thrusting out its neighbor 
From the sunrise, or the sunset, 

In a boarding school of fashion 

Was Miranda comprehended, 

Goal of her supreme ambition. 


—Girls were there from different regions, 
Distant States, and varying costumes, 
She was beautiful they told her, 

And her mirror when she sought it 
Gave concurrent testimony. 


—NMany teachers met their classes 
In this favorite Institution 

Where accomplishments or studies 
Were pursued as each selected, 

Or their parents gave commandment. 
But Miranda was impeded 


92 


In successful application, 
By the consciousness of beauty 
And the vanity it fosters. 


—Very fond was she of walking 
In the most frequented places, 
Fondly fancying all beholders 
Gazed on her with admiration. 
Striking dresses, gay with colors 
She disported and commended, 
Not considering that the highest 
Of attractions in a woman 

Is simplicity of costume, 

And a self-forgetful sweetness. 


—Men with business over-laden, 

Men of science, pondering axioms, 

Men of letters, lost in reverie, 

She imagined when they passed her 
Gaz’d with secret admiration, 

Ask’d in wonder, ‘ who can that be?” 
Backward turned perchance, to view her, 
As she lightly glided onward. 


—So completely had this beauty 
Leagued with vanity, uprooted 
Serious thought and useful purpose, 
And the nobler ends of being, 
That even in the solemn Temple 

‘ Where humility befitteth 


93 


All who offer adoration, 

Close observance of the apparel 

Of acquaintances or strangers, 

And a self-display intruded 

On the service of devotion, 

While her fair cheek oft-times rested 
Daintily on gloveless fingers 

Where the radiant jewels sparkled 
On a hand like sculptured marble. 


Meantime in the rural mansion 
Whence with gladness she departed, 
Sate the mother and the sister 

By the hearth-stone or the lamp-lght, 
Thinking of their loved Miranda, 
Speaking of her, working for her, 
Writing tender, earnest letters 

To sustain her mid her studies, 
Fearing that her health might suffer 
By the labor and privation 

That a year at school demanded. 


—As the autumnal evenings lengthen’d, 
Bertha with a filial sweetness 

Sought her mother’s favorite authors, 
And with perfect elocution 

Made their sentiments and feelings, 
Guests around the quiet fireside. 


—Page of Livy, or of Cesar, 


Stirring scenes of tuneful Maro, 
9 


94 


From their native, stately numbers 
To the mother’s ear she rendered ; 

Or with her o’er ancient regions, 
Fallen sphynx, or ruin’d column, 
Led by guiding Rollin, wandered, 
Deeply mused with saintly Sherlock, 
Or through Milton’s inspiration 
Scanned the lore of forfeit Eden. 


With the vertic rays of Summer 
Homeward came the fair Miranda. 
How the village people wonder’d 
At her fashions, and her movements, 
How she made the new piano 
Tremble to its inmost centre 

With andante, and bravura, 

What a piece she had to show them 
Of Andromache the Trojan, 
Wrought in silks of every color, 
And ’twas said a foreign language 
Such as princes use in Paris, 

She could speak to admiration. 


—Greatly their surprise amused her, 
But the Mother and the Sister 

With their eagle-eyed affection, 
Spied a thorn amid the garland, 
Heard the sighing on her pillow, 
Saw the flush invade her forehead, 


. 95 
And were sure some secret sorrow 
Rankled in that snowy bosom. 


Rumor, soon with hundred voices 
Whisper’d of a dashing lover, 
Trreligious and immoral, 

And the anxious Mother counsel’d 
Sad of heart her fair-hair’d daughter. 


—Scarce with any show of reverence 
Listen’d the impatient maiden, 

Then with tearless eyes wide open 
Like full orbs of shadeless sapphire 
All unpausing, thus responded. 


—‘T have promised Aldebaran, 

T’o be his,—alone,—forever ! 

And Ill keep that promise, Mother, 
Though the firm skies fall around me, 
And yon stars in fragments shatter’d, 
Each with thousand voices warn’d me. 


—Thou hast spoken words reproachful, 
Doubting of his soul’s salvation, 

Of his creed I never question’d, 

But where’er he goes, I follow. 
Whatsoe’er his lot, I’ll share it, 
Though it were the darkest chamber 
In the lowest hell. "T'were better 
There with him, than ’mid the carols 
Of the highest heaven, without him.” 


f ; 96 - 


Swan-like arms were wrapped around her 
With a cry of better pleading, 

‘Oh Miranda !—Oh my Sister! 

Gather back the words you’ve spoken, 
Quickly, ere the angel write them 
Weeping on the doom’s day tablet. 


—You have grieved our blessed Mother: 
See you not the large tears trickle 
Down those channels deeply furrow’d 
Which the widow-anguish open’d? 
Kneel beside me, Oh my Sister ! 
Darling of my cradle slumbers, 

Ask the grace of God to cleanse thee 
From thy blasphemy and blindness, 
Supplicate the Great Enlightener 
Here to purge away thy madness, 
Pray our Saviour to forgive thee.” 


“Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me, 
What knowest thou of love almighty? 
Naught except that craven spirit 
Measuring, weighing, calculating, 
That goes shivering to its bridal. 
On this deathless soul, all hazard 
Here I take, and if it perish, 
Let it perish. 

From the socket 
This nght eye I’d pluck, extinguish 


97 


This right hand, if he desire it, 
And go maim’d through all the ages 
That Eternity can number. 


—Prayer is not for me, but action, 
Against thee, and Her who bare me 
Stand I at Love’s bidding, boldly 

In the armor that he giveth, 

For life’s battle, strong and ready. 
—Hush! I’ve sworn, and Ill confirm it.” 


In due time, the handsome suitor 
Paid his devoirs to Miranda, 

In her own paternal dwelling. 
Very exquisite in costume, 

Very confident in manner, ~ 
Pompous, city-bred, and fearless 
Was the accepted Aldebaran. 


—Anxious felt she, lest the customs 
Of the rustic race around her, 

So she styled her rural neighbors, 
Might discourage or disgust him, 
But he gave them no attention, 
(Quite absorbed in other matters. 


—In their promenades together 

She beheld the people watching 

Mid their toils of agriculture, 
g* 


98 


Saw them gaze from door and windows, 
Little ones from gates and fences, 

On the stylish Alderbaran, 

And her heart leap’d up exulting. 


—Notice took he of the homestead, 
With an eye of speculation, 

Ask’d the number of its acres, 
And what revenue they yielded. 
Notice took of herds and buildings 
With their usufruct, and value, 
Closer note than seem’d consistent 
With his delicate position ; 

But Miranda, Cupid blinded, 

No venality detected. 


—He, in gorgeous phrase address’d her, 
With an oriental worship, 

As some goddess condescending 

T’o an intercourse with mortals. 

Pleas’d was she with such observance, 
Pleas’d and proud that those around her 
Should perceive what adoration 

Was to her, by him accorded. 


—When he left, twas with the assurance 
The next visit should be final. 

Marking on his silver tablet 

With gay hand, the day appointed 


99 


When he might return to claim her 
In the nuptial celebration. 


There’s a bridal in the spring-time, 
When the bee from wintry covert 
Talking to the unsheath’d blossoms, 
Meditates unbounded plunder, 

And the bird mid woven branches 
Brooding o’er her future treasures 
Harkeneth thrilling to the love-song 
Of her mate, who nestward tendeth. 


—There’s a bridal in the spring-time, 
And the beautiful Miranda 

Through her veil of silvery tissue’ 
Gleams, more beautiful than ever. 
From the hearth-stone of her fathers, 
With the deathless love of woman 
Trusting all for earth or heaven 

To a mortal’s rule and guidance, 
One, but short time since, a stranger, 


Forth she goes. 
The young beholders 


Gazing on the handsome bridegroom, 
Gazing on the nuptial carriage, 
Where the milk-white horses sported 
Knots of evergreen and myrtle, 

Felt a pleasure mix’d with envy 

At a happiness so perfect. 


100 


—But more thoughtful ones, instructed 
By the change of time and sorrow, 

By the cloud and by the sunbeam, 

Felt the hazard that attended 

Such intrustment without limit, 

Vows that none had right to cancel 
Save the hand of Death’s dark Angel. 


Of the sadness left behind her 

In the mansion whence she parted, 
Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache, 
Deep, unutter’d apprehension, 
Fearful looking for of judgment, 
It were vain in lays so feeble 

To attempt a true recital. 


—Still, to Mother and to Sister 
Came epistles from Miranda, 
Hssene’d and genteelly written, 
Painting happiness so perfect, 

So transcending expectation, 

So surpassing all that fancy 

In her wildest flights had peneil’d, 
That even Hden ere the tempter 
Coil’d himself amid the blossoms 
Faild to furnish fitting symbol. 


Heartfelt bliss is never boastful, 
Like the holy dew it stealeth 


101 


To the bosom of the violet, 
Only told by deeper fragrance. 


—He who saith “See! see! I’m happy? 
Happier than all else around me,” | 
Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind him 
Whether he hath comprehended 

What true happiness implieth. 


Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest ! 
Oh, the dreary night of winter! 
Drifting snows, and winds careering 
Down the tall, wide-throated chimney, 
Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades. 
Shrieking ghosts of buried legions. 


—‘ Mother! hear I not the wailing 
Of a human voice?” 

‘My daughter ! 
"Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees. 
The old sentry-Oak is broken, 
Close beside our chamber-window, 
And its branches all are moaning. 
‘Tis their grief you hear, my daughter.” 


But the maiden’s ear was quicken’d 
- To all plaint of mortal sorrow, 
And when next, the bitter north wind 


102 


Lull’d, to gather strength and vigor, 

For a new exacerbation, 

Listening close, she caught the murmur, 
‘“Tfush mein daughter! hush mein baby.” 
Then she threw the door wide open, 
Though the storm rush’d in upon her, 
With its blinding sleet and fury. 


What beheld she, near the threshold, 
Prostrate there beside the threshold, 
But a woman, to whose bosom 
Clung a young and sobbing infant? 


—Oh the searching look that kindled 
"Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids, 
Searching mid the blast and darkness, 
For some helper in her anguish, 
Searching, kindling look, that settled 
Into heavy, deadly slumber, 

As the waning taper flashes 

Once, to be relumin’d never. 


Still her weak arm clasp’d the baby, 
Rais’d its pining, pinching features, 
Faintly cried, ‘‘ Mein kind! Have pity, 
Pity, for the love of Jesus!” 


—Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer, 
Thy poor, failing feet have brought thee 
Where the love of Jesus dwelleth. 


108 


Gently in a bed they laid her, 

Chafed her stiffening limbs and temples, 
Pour’d the warm, life-giving cordial, 
But what seem’d the most to cheer her, 
Were some words by Bertha spoken 
In her own, dear native language. 
Voice of Fatherland! it quicken’d 

All the heart’s collapsing heart-strings, 
As though bath’d, and renovated 

In the Rhine’s blue, rushing waters. 


— 


O’er the wildering waste of ocean, 
Moved by zeal of emigration 

She had ventured with her husband 
To this western World of promise, 
Rainbow-vested El-Dorado. 


On that dreary waste of waters 

He had died, and left her mourning, 
All unguided, unbefriended. © 
—There the mother-sorrow found her 
And compell’d her by the weeping 
Of the new-born, to encounter 
With a broken-hearted welcome 
Life once more, which in the torrent 
Of her utter desolation 

She had cast aside, contemning 

As a burden past endurance. 


104 


—Outeast in this land of strangers, 
Strange of speech, and strange in manner, 
She had travel’d, worn and weary, 

Here and there, with none to aid her, 
Ask’d for work, and none employ’d her, 
Ask’d for alms, and few reliev’d her, 

Till at length, the wintry tempest 

Smote her near that blessed roof-tree. 


Heavy slumber weigh’d her downward, 
Slumber from whence none awaketh. 
Yet at morn they heard her sighing, 
On her pillow faintly sighing, 

“Tam ready! I am ready!” 

‘“TLeonore! my child! my darling!” 


Then they brought the infant to her, 
Cleanly robed, and sweetly smiling, 
And the parting soul turn’d backward, 
And the clay-seal on the eyelids 
Lifted up to gaze upon it. 


Bertha kiss’d the little forehead, 
Said “mein kind,” and lo! a shudder 
Of this earth’s forgotten pleasure 
Trembled o’er the dying woman, 
And the white hand cold as marble 
Strove to raise itself in blessing, 

For the mother-joy was stronger 


105 


That one moment, while it wrestled 
With the pausing king of terrors, 
Stronger than the king of terrors. 


Then they laid her icy fingers 

Mid the infant’s budding ringlets, 

And the pang and grasp subsided 

In a smile and whispering cadence, 

‘God, mein God, be praised ! ”’—and silence 
Settled on those lips forever. 


Favor’d is the habitation 

Where a gentle infant dwelleth, 
When its brightening eye revealeth 
The immortal part within it, 

And its curious wonder scanneth 
All its wide spread, tiny fingers, 
And its velvet hand caressing 

Pats the nurse’s cheek and bosom, 
Hoary Age grows young before it, 
As the branch that Winter blighted 
At the touch of Spring reviveth. 


When its healthful form evolveth, 
And with quadrupedal pleasure 
Creeping o’er the nursery carpet, 
Aiming still, its flowery surface 
With faint snatches to appropriate, 
Or the bolder art essaying 


On its two round feet to balance 
10 


106 


And propel the swaying body 

As with outstretch’d arms it hastens 
Tottering toward the best beloved, 
Hope, her freshest garland weaveth 
Glittering with the dews of morning. 


When the lisping tongue adventures 
The first tones of imitation, 

Or with magic speed o’ermasters 
The philosophy of language 
Twining round the mind of others, 
Preferences, and pains and pleasures, 
Tendrils strong, of sentient being, 
Seeking kindness and indulgence, 
Loving sports and smiles, and gladness, 
Tenderest love goes forth to meet it, 
Love that every care repayeth. 


Thus the little German exile 
Leaning on her foster parents 
Brought a love that soothed and cheer’d them, 
And with sweet confiding meekness 
Taught to older ones the lesson 

Of the perfect trust, we children 
Of One Great Almighty Parent 
Should repose in His protection 
Goodness and unerring wisdom : 
Though His discipline mysterious 
Oft transcendeth feeble reason, 


107 


And perchance overthrows the fabrics 
That in arrogance we builded, 

Call’d our own, and vainly rented 

To a troop of hopes and fancies, 
Gay-robed joys, or fond affections. 


"Tis a solemn thing and lovely, 
To adopt a child, whose mother 
Dwelleth in the land of spirits: 
In its weakness give it succor, 

Be in ignorance its teacher, 

In all sorrow its consoler, 

In temptation its defender, 

Save what else had been forsaken, 
Win for it a crown in Heaven,— 
Tis a solemn thing and lovely, 
Such a work as God approveth. 


Blessed are the souls that nurture 
With paternal care the orphan, 
Neath their roof-tree lending shelter, 
At their table breathing welcome, 
Giving armor for the journey 

And the warfare that awaiteth 
Every pilgrim, born of woman, 
Blessed, for the grateful prayer 
Riseth unto Him who heareth 

The lone sigh of the forsaken, 


108 


Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs, 
To the crying of the ravens, 

From whose nest the brooding pinion 
By the archer’s shaft was sever’d. 


Pomp and wealth, and pride of office 
With their glitter and their shouting, 
May not pass through death’s dark valley, 
May not thrill the ear that resteth 

Mid the silence of the grave-yard ; 
But the deed that wrought in pity 

Mid the outcast and benighted, 

In the hovel or the prison, 

On the land or on the ocean, 

Shunning still the applause of mortals, 
Comes it not to His remembrance 
Who shall say amid the terrors 

Of the last Great Day of Judgment, 

‘‘ Inasmuch as ye have done it 

Unto one, the least, the lowest, 

It was done to Me, your Saviour.” 


CANTO THIRD. 


TP’Lu change my measure, and so end my lay, 
Too long already. 

I can’t manage well 
The metre of that master of the lyre, 
Who Mawatha, and our forest tribes 
Deftly described. Hexameters, I hate, 
And henceforth do eschew their company, 
For what is written irksomely, will be 
Read in like manner. 

What did I say last 
In my late canto? Something, I believe 
Of gratitude. 

Now this same gratitude 
Is a fine word to play on. Many a niche 
It fills in letters, and in billet-doux,— 
Its adjective a graceful prefix makes 
To a well-written signature. It gleams 
A happy mirage in a sunny brain ; 
But as a principle, is oft, I fear, 
Inoperative. Some satirist hath said 
That gratitude vs only a keen sense 


Of future favors. 
10* 


110 


As regards myself, 
Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault, 
Yet I’m constrain’d to say, that where my gifts 
And efforts have been greatest, the return 
Has been in contrast. So that I have shrunk 
To grant myself the pleasure of great love 
Lest its reward might be indifference, 
Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been 
More fortunate. I trust ’tis often so: 
But this is my experience, on the scale 
Of three times twenty years, and somewhat more. 


In that calm happiness which Virtue gives, 
Blent with the daily zeal of doing good, 
Mother and daughter dwelt. 

Once, as they came 
From their kind visit to a child of need, 
Cheered by her blessings,—at their home they found 
Miranda and her son. ‘With rapid speech, 
And strong emotion that resisted tears 
Her tale she told. Forsaken were they both, 
By faithless sire and husband. He had gone 
To parts unknown, with an abandon’d one 
He long had follow’d. Brokenly she spake 
Of taunts and wrongs long suffer’d and conceal’d 
With woman’s pride. Thex bitterly she pour’d 
Her curses on his head. 

With shuddering tears 
They press’d her to their hearts. 


111 


‘Come back! Come back! 
To your first home, and Heaven’s compassions heal 
Your wounded spirit.” ‘ 
Lovingly they cast 
Their mantle o’er her, striving to uplift 
Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure 
To deeds of charity, that draw the sting 
From selfishness of sorrow.” 
But she shrank 
From social intercourse, nor took her seat 
Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes 
Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work 
Enticed her, and the lov’d piano’s tone 
Waking sad echoes of the days that were, 
She seem’d to shun. Her joy was in her child. 
The chief delight and solace of her life 
To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls, 
Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults, 
With weak indulgence. 
‘Oh, Miranda, love! 
Teach your fair boy, obedience. Tis the first 
Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place 
Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all 
To learn submission.” 
But Miranda will’d 
In her own private mind, not to adopt 
Such old-world theories, deeming the creed 
Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete. 
—Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail’d 


112 


That render beauty pleasing. Great regard 
Had he for self, and play, and dainty food, 
Unlike those Jewish children, who refused 
The fare luxurious of Chaldea’s king, 
And on their simple diet grow more fair 
And healthful than their mates, and wiser too, 
Than the wise men of Babylon. 

Tve seen 
Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes 
Were pampered and inured to luxury. 
Their palates seem’d to overtop the brain, 
And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert 
Childhood’s simplicity of sweet content. 
—Precocious appetites, when overruled, 
Or disappointed, lend imperious strength 
To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain. 
Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect 
Had wiser usages. Her little ones 
At their own regular, plain table learn’d 
No culinary criticism, nor claim’d 
Admission to the richly furnish’d board 
Nor deem’d the viands of their older friends 
Pertain’d to them. 

A pleasant sight it was 
At close of day, their simple supper o’er, 
To find them in the quiet nursery laid, 
Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath 
To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain’d 
Firm texture, and the key-stone of the frame, 


113 


This wondrous frame, so often sinn’d against,— 
Unwarp’d and undispeptic, gave to life 
A higher zest. 

Year after year swept by, 
And Conrad’s symmetry of form and face 
Grew more conspicuous. Yet he fail’d to win 
Approval from the pious, or desire 
To seek him as companion for their sons. 


—At school and college he defied restraint, 
And round the associates of his idle hours 
Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake 
Of them, as those who would be sure to bring 
Disgrace and infamy. 

Strong thirst for gold 
Sprang with the weeds of vice. His mother’s purse 
Was drain’d for him, and when at length she spake 
In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush’d 
Out of her presence, or withdrew himself 
All night from her abode. Then she was fain 
To appease his anger by some lavish gift 
From scant resources, which she ill could spare, 
Making the evil worse. 

The growth of sin 
Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart 
Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft 
The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget 
What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense 
Depraved and weaken’d, fails to grasp the clue 


114 


Of certainty, nor scruples to deny 

Words utter’d, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps 
Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be, 

When Truth offended and austere, confronts 

The false soul at Heaven’s bar. 


An aged man 
Dwelt by himself upon a dreary moor, 
And it was whisper’d that a miser’s hoard 
Absorb’d his thoughts, , 

There, at the midnight hour 
The unwonted flash of lights was seen by those 
Who chanced to pass, and entering in, they found 
The helpless inmate murder’d in his bed, 
And the house rifled. 

Differing tracks they mark’d 
Of flying footsteps in the moisten’d soil, 
And eager search ensued. 

At length, close hid 
In a dense thicket, Conrad they espied, 
His shoes besmear’d with blood. Question’d of those 
Who with him in this work of horror join’d, 
He answered nothing. 

All unmovy’d he stood 
Upon his trial, the nefarious deed 
Denying, and of his accomplices 
Disclosing nought. But still there seem’d a chain 
Of evidence to bind him in its coil, 
And Justice had her course. The prison bolts 


115 


Closed heavily behind him, and his doom 
For years, with felons was incorporate. 


Of the wild anguish and despair that reign’d 
In his ancestral home, no words can give 


Description meet. 
In the poor mother’s mind 


Reason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone, 
Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp, 
Haying no anchor on the eternal Rock, 
She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound. 
—She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word, 
Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer : 
She only shriek’d, 

“My boy! my beautiful ! 
They bind his hands!” 

And then with frantic cries 
She struggled ’gainst imaginary foes, 
Till strength was gone. 

Through the long syncope 
Her never-resting lips essay’d to form 
The gasping sounds, 

‘““My boy! my beautiful! 
Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!” 
And in that unquell’d madness life went out, 
Like lamp before the blast. 


With sullen port 
Of bravery, as one who scorns defeat 


116 


Though it hath come upon him, Conrad met 
The sentence of the law. But its full force 
He fail’d to estimate; the stern restraint 

On liberty of movement, coarsest fare, 
Stripes for the contumacious, and for all 


Labor, and silence. 
The inquiring glance 


On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes 

Of malefactors, harden’d to their lot, 

And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn’d 
Or haughtily return’d. Yet there were lights 
Even in this dark abode, not often found 

In penal regions, where the wrath of man 

Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not 
The mercy that himself doth ask of God. 


—A just man was the warden and humane, 
Not credulous, or easily deceiv’d, 
But hopeful of our nature, though deprav’d, 
And for the incarcerate, careful to restrain 
All petty tyranny. 

Courteous was he 
To visitants, for many such there were. 
Philanthropists, whose happy faith beliey’d 
Prisons reforming schools, came here to scan 
Arrangements and appliances as guides 
To other institutions: strangers too, 
Who ’mid their explorations of the State, 
Scenery and structures, would not overlook 
Its model-prison. 


117 


Now and then, was seen 
Some care-worn mother, leading by the hand 
Her froward boy, with hope that he might learn 
A lesson from the punishment he saw. 


—When day was closed and to his narrow cell 
Bearing his supper, every prisoner went, 

The night-lock firmly clench’d, beside some grate 
While the large lamp thro’ the long corridors 
Threw flickering light, the Chaplain often stood 
Conversing. Of the criminal’s past life 

He made inquiry, and receiv’d replies 

Foreign from truth, or vague and taciturn : 

And added pious counsels, unobserv’d, 

Heeded but slightly, or ill understood. 


The leaden-footed weeks o’er Conrad pass’d, 
With deadening weight. 

Privation bow’d his pride. 
The liy-handed, smiting at the forge, 
Detested life, and meditated means 
To accomplish suicide. 

At dusk of eve, 
While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused, 
Before his grate, a veiled woman stood. 


—She spake not, but her presence made him glad,— 
A purer atmosphere seem’d breathing round 
To expand his shrivell’d heart. 

11 


118 


Fair gifts she brought, 
Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits 
Most grateful to his fever’d lip. 
“Oh speak | 
Speak to me!” 
But she glided light away, 
And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said 
“Good night! With the new moon I'll come again.” 


With the new Moon!” 
Hope! hope! Its magic wand 
With phosphorescence ting’d that Stygian pool 
Of chill despair, in which his soul had sank 
Lower and lower still. Now, at the forge 
A blessed vision gleam’d. Its mystery woke. 
The romance of his nature. Hvery day 
Moved lighter on, and when he laid it down, 
It breathed “‘ good night!” like a complacent child 
Going to rest. One barrier less remain’d 
Between him and the goal, and to each night 
A tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell, 
Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn. 


But wil she come ? 
f And then, he blamed the doubt. 
His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died. 
And when the slender sickle of pale gold 
Cut the blue concave, by his grated door 


119 


Stood the veil’d visitant. The breath of flowers 
Foretold her coming. With their wealth she brought 
Grapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book, 
The holiest, and the best. 

‘Show me thine eyes!” 
He pray’d. But still with undrawn veil, she gave 
The promise of return, in whisper sweet,' 
“Good night! good night! 

Wilt read my Book? and say 
Oh Lamb of God, forgive! ” 

So, by the lamp 
When tardy Evening still’d the din of toil, 
He read of Him who came to save the lost, 
Who touch’d the blind, and they receiv’d their sight, 
The dead young man, and raised him from his bier, 
Reproved the raginz Sea, and it was still: 
Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly. 
But here, in this strange solitude of pain 
With different voice they spake. And as he read, 
The fragrance of the mignionette he loved, 
Press’d ’tween the pages, lured him onward still. 


Now, a new echo in his heart was born, 

And sometimes mid the weary task, and leer 
Of felon faces, ere he was aware a 
From a compress’d unmurmuring lip, it broke, 
O Lamb of God! If still unquell’d Despair 
Thrust up a rebel standard, down it fell 

At the o’er-powering sigh, 0 Lamb of God! 


120 


And ere upon his pallet low, he sank, 
It sometimes breathed, ‘‘ O Lamb of God, forgive / 
Like the taught lessen of a humbled child. 


Yet duly as the silver vested moon 
Hiding awhile in the dark breast of night 
Return’d to take her regent watch again 
Over our sleeping planet, softly came 
That shrouded visitant, preferring still 
Like those who guard us lest we dash our foot 
Against a stone, to do her blessed work 
Unseen. And with the liberal gifts she brought 
For body, and for soul, there seem’d to float 
A legacy of holy themes and thoughts 
Behind her, like an incense-stream. He mused 
Oft-times of patience, and the dying love 
Of our dear Lord, nor yet without remorse 
Of that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects, 
And God requires. 

How beautiful is Truth! 
Her right-lined course, amid the veering curves 
And tangents of the world, her open face 
Seeking communion with the scanning stars, 
Her grave, severe simplicity of speech 
Untrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric, 
By bribes of popular applause unbow’d, 
In unison with Him she dwells who ruled 
The tyranny of Chaos, with the words 


121 


Let there be light !” 

Gladly we turn again 
To that fair mansion mid the rural vales 
Where first our song awoke. Advancing years 
Brought to its blessed Lady no regret 
Or weak complaint for what the hand of Time 
Had borne away. Enduring charms were hers 
On which he laid no tax; the beaming smile, 
The voice of melody, the hand that mark’d 
Each day with deeds of goodness, and the heart 
That made God’s gift of life more beautiful, 
The more prolong’d. Its griefs she counted gains, 
Since He who wisely will’d them cannot err, 
And loves while He afflicts. 
| Their dialect 
Was breathed in secret ’tween her soul and Him. 
But toward mankind, her duties made more pure 
By the strong heat of their refining fires, ; 
Flow’d forth like molten gold. She sought the poor, 
Counsell’d the ignorant, consoled the sad, 
And made the happy happier, by her warmth 
Of social sympathy. She loved to draw 
The young around her table; well she knew 
To cheer and teach them, by the tale or song, 
Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with her 
Till hfe went out. It pleased her much to hear 
Their innocent merriment, while from the flow 
And swelling happiness of childhood’s heart 


So simply purchased, she herself imbibed 
ri 


122 


A fuller tide of fresh vitality. 

Her favor’d guests exultingly rehears’d 
Their visits to “‘the Lady,” counting each ~ 
A privilege, not having learned the creed 
Which modern times inculcate in our land 
That whatsoe’er is old, is obsolete. 


—-Still ever at her side, by night. and day 
Was Bertha, entering into every plan, 
With zealous aid, assuming every care 
That brought a burden, catching every smile 
On the clear mirror of a loving heart, 
Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt, 
Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship, 
One soul betwixt them. Filial piety 
Thrives best with generous natures. Here was nought 
Of self to check it, so it richly bloom’d 
Like the life-tree, that yieldeth every month 
New fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leaves 
The balm of healing. 

In that peaceful home 
The fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy, 
Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheet 
For Love to write on. Sporting ’mid the flowers, 
Caroling with the birds, or gliding light 
As fawn, her fine, elastic temperament 
Took happiest coloring from each varying hour 
Or changing duty. Kind, providing cares 
Which younglings often thoughtlessly receive 


123 


Or thankless claim, she gratefully repaid 
With glad obedience. Pleas’d was she to bear 
Precocious part in household industry, 
Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread, 
And see the stocking grow, or side by side 
With her loved benefactresses to work 
Upon some garment for the ill-clad poor, 
With busy needle. As their almoner, 
"T'was her delight to seek some lowly hut 
And gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leave 
With her kind dole, a wonder whence it came. 
—A heavenly blessing wrapp’d its wing around 
The adopted orphanage. 

Oh ye whose homes 
Are childless, know ye not some little heart 
Collapsing, for the need of parent’s love, 
That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lamb 
That ye might shelter in your fold? content 
To make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feet 
In duty’s path, bring a new soul to Heaven, 
And take your payment from the Judge’s Voice, 
At the Last Day? 

—A tireless tide of joy, 
A world of pleasure in the garden bound, 
Open’d to Leonore. From the first glance 
Of the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath, 
On, to the ripen’d gatherings of the Grape, 
And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her. 
She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ, 


124 


And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe, 

And lead the tendril right. To her they seem’d 
Like living friends. She sedulously mark’d 
Their health and order, and was skill’d to prune 
The too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine. 

She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run, 
And stoop’d to kiss the timid Violet, 
Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream’d 
The Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned 

On its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark, 

Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by, 
Young Fancy, train’d by Nature, turn’d to God. 
Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truth 

' And found in every season, change of joy. 


—Yet her prime pleasure seem’d at wintry eve 
Tho’ storms might fall, when from its branching arms 
The antique candelabra shed fair hght 
On polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp’d 
Close o’er the casements, she might draw her seat 
Near to her aged friend and take her hand 
And frame her voice to join some tuneful song, 
Treasuring whate’er of wise remark distill’d 
From those loved lips. 

Then, as her Mentor spoke 
Of God’s great goodness in this mortal life, 
Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy, 
And how we ought to yield it back with trust 
And not with dread, whenever He should call, 
Having such precious promises, through Christ 


125 


Of gain unsp2akable, beyond the grave, 
The listening pupil felt her heart expand . 
With reverent love. 
Friendship, ’tween youth and age 
Is gain to both,—nor least to that which finds 
The germs of knowledge and experience drop 
And twine themselves around the unfrosted locks, 
A fadeless coronet. In this sweet home 
The lengthen’d day seem’d short for their delights, 
And wintry evening brief. The historic page 
Made vocal, brought large wealth to memory. 
The lore of distant climes, that rose and fell 
Ere our New World, like Lazarus came forth, 
The napkin round her forehead, and sate down 
Beside her startled sisters. 
Last of all, 
The large time-honor’d Bible loos’d its clasps 
And shed its manna on their waiting souls; 
Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones, 
By Bertha’s parlor-organ made intense 
In melody of praise, and fervent Prayer 
Set its pure crown upon the parted day, 
And kiss’d the Angel, Sleep. 
Yet ere they rose 
From bended knee, there was a lingering pause, 
A. silent orison for one whose name 
But seldom pass’d their lips, though in their hearts 
His image with its faults and sorrows dwelt, 


Invoking pity of a pardoning God. 


126 


—Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebe 
Stirr’d by the vernal plough-share, yielding charms 
To Summer, pouring wealth o’er Autumn’s breast, 
Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes, 
Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eld 

With snow upon his temples, peaceful sits 

In his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest. 


Once, at that season when the ices shrink 
Befere the vernal equinox, at morn 

There was no movement in the Lady’s room, 
Who prized the early hours like molten gold, 
And ever rose before the kingly Sun. 


—On the white pillow still reposed her head, 
Her cheek upon her hand. She had retired 
In health, affection’s words, and trustful prayers 
Hallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem’d 
Unwonted smoothness, and the smile was there 
Set as a seal, with which the call she heard, 
“Come! sister-spirit [” 

She had gain’d the wish 
Oft utter’d to her God, to pass away 
Without the sickness and enfeebled powers 
That tax the heart of love. Death that unbars 
Unto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven, 
Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh, 


Doth angel-service. 
But alas! the shock, 


The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt, 


127 


And must return no more. As one amaz’d 
The stricken daughter held her breath for awe, 
God seem’d so near. Methought she saw the Hand 
That smote her. Half herself was reft away, 
Body and soul. Yet no repining word © 
Announe’d her agony. 

The tolling bell 
To hill and valley, told with solemn tongue 
That death had been among them, and at door 
And window listening, aged crone and child 
Counted its strokes, a stroke for every year, 
And predicated thence, as best they might, 
Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask’d, 
Till the sad tidings were possess’d by all. 


—A village funeral is a thing that warns 

All from their homes. In the throng’d city’s bound, 
Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire 

Who goeth to his grave. But rural life 

Keepeth afresh the rills of sympathy. 

True sorrow was there at these obsequies, 

For all the poor were mourners. There the old 
Came in the garments she had given, bow’d down 
With their own sense of loss. O’er furrow’d cheeks 
In care-worn channels stole the trickling tear. 

The young were weepers, for their memories stored 
Many a gentle word, and precept kind, 

Like jewels dropp’d behind her. Mothers rais’d 
Their little ones above the coffin’s side 


128 


~ To look upon her face. Lingering they gazed 
Deeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept 
Among the flowers that on her pillow lay. 


He’s but a tyro in the school of grief 

Who hath not from the victor-tomb return’d 
Unto his rifled home. The utter weight 

Of whelming desolation doth not fall 

Till the last rites are paid. ‘The cares of love 
Having no longer scope, withdraw their shield, 
And even the seat whereon the lost one sate, 

The pen he held, the cup from which he drank, 
Launch their keen darts against the festering soul. 


—The lonely daughter, never since her birth 
Divided from the mother, having known 

No separate pleasure, or secreted thought, 

With deep humility resumed her course 

Of daily duty and philanthropy, 

Not murmuring, but remembering His great love 
Who lent so long that blessing beyond price, 
And from her broken censer offering still 


Incense of praise. 
She deem’d it fearful loss 


To lose a sorrow, be chastis’d in vain, 
Not yield our joys, but have them rent away, 
And make this life a battle-field with God. 


The sombre shadow brooding o’er their home 
Was felt by all. The heart of Leonore 


129 


Dwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled, 
The untasted meal, and couch bedew’d with tears 
Gave the solution to her wasted flesh, 
And drooping eye-lids. 

Folded in her arms, 
Bertha with tender accents said, “my child, 
We please not her who to the angels went, 
By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eye 
Regards us, though unseen. How oft she taught 
To make God’s will our own. You, who were glad 
To do her bidding then, distress her not 
By disobedience now. Waste not the health 
In reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link’d 
With many duties, and with hope to dwell 
If faithful found, with Her who went before 
And beckoning waits us.” 

From dull trance of grief 
By kind reproof awakened, Leonore 
Strove to redeem her scholarship from blame 
And be a comforter, as best she might 
To her remaining patroness 


Within 
The limits of a neighboring town, a wretch 
Fell by the wayside, struck by sudden Death 
That vice propels. A Man of God, who sought 
Like his blest Master every form of woe 
Found him, and to a shelter and a couch 


Convey’d. Then bending down, with earnest words 
12 


‘ 


130 


For time grew short, he urg’d him to repent. 
‘Say, Lord have mercy on my soul. 
Look up 
Unto the Lamb of God, for He can save 
Even to the uttermost.” 
Slight heed obtain’d 
This adjuration, wild the glazing eye 
Fix’d on the wall,—and ever and anon 
The stiffening fingers clutch’d at things unseen, 
While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound, 
“Thats he! That's he! 
The old man! His grey hairs 
Dabbled with blood !” 
Then in a loud, long ery, 
Wrung out by torturing pain, 
“T struck the blow! 
I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped. 
Conrad who bore the doom is innocent, 
Save fellowship with guilt.” 
And so he fled ; 
The voice of prayer around him, but the soul 
Beyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor rose 
Sadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatch 
A. wanderer from the Lion. 
But the truth 
Couch’d in that dismal cry of parting life 
He treasured up, and bore to those who held 
Power to investigate and to reprieve ; 
And authorized by them with gladness sought 


131 


The gloomy prison. Conrad there he found 
In sullen syncope of sickening thought, 
And cautiously in measured terms disclosed 
His liberation. Wondering doubt look’d forth 
From eyes that opening wide and wider still 
Strain’d from their sockets. Yet the hand he took 
That led him from the cell, and onward moved 
Like Peter following his angel guide 
Deeming he saw a vision. As the bolts 
Drew gratingly to let them pass, he seem’d 
To gather consciousness, and restless grew 
With an unspoken fear, lest at the last 
Some sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinel 
Might bar their egress. 

When behind them closed. 
The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh air 
So long witheld, fill’d his collapsing lungs, 
He shouted rapturously, 


“% Am I alive? 
Or have I burst the gates of death, and found 
A second Eden? ” xe 


The unwonted sound 
Of his own voice, freed from the drear constraint 
Of prison durance, swell’d his thrilling frame 
With strong and joyous impulse, for ’tis said 
Long stifled utterance is torturing-pain 
To organs train’d to speech. 

With one high leap 
Like an enfranchis’d steed he seem’d to throw 
His spirit-chain behind him. Then he took 


132 


The Pastor’s offer’d arm, who led the way 
To his own house, and bade him bathe and change 
His prison garments, and repose that night 


Under his roof. 
With thoughtful care he spoke 


To his own household, kindly to receive 
The erring one,—“ for we are sinners all, 
And not upon our merits may depend 


But on abounding grace.” 
So when the hour 


Of cheerful supper summon’d to the board, 
He came among them as a comely guest, 
Refresh’d and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer’d 
The hospitable meal, and then withdrawn 
Into the quiet study ’mid the books, 
That saintly good man with the hoary hair 
Silvering his temples like a graceful crown, 
Strove by wise counsel to encourage him 
For life’s important duties, 

But be deem’d 
A ban was on him, and a mark which all 
Would scan who met him. 

“He whose lot hath been 
With fiends in Pandemonium, must expect 
Hate and contempt from men.” 

‘Not so, my son! 
Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing, 
Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice. 
The good will aid you, and a brighter day 


138 


Doubtless awaits you. Be not too much moved 
By man’s applause or blame, but ever look 
Unto a higher Judge.” 
Then there arose 
A voice of supplication, so intense 
To the Great Pardoner, that He would send 
His spirit down to change and purify 
The erring heart, that those persuasive tones, 
So humble, yet so strangely eloquent 
Breathed o’er the unhappy one like soothing spell 
Of magic influence, and he slept that night 
With peace and hope, long exiled from his couch. 


A summer drive to one sequestered long, 
Hath charms untold. 
The common face of earth, 

The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves, 
Kiss’d by the zephyr, or by winged bird 
Disparted, as it finds its chirping nest, 
The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds, 
The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream, 
And azure concave fleck’d with silver clouds 
Awaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt, 
While pleasure every kindling feature touch’d, 
And every accent tuned. But when they saw 
The fair ancestral roof through trees afar, 
Strong agony convuls’d him, and he cried, 
Not there! Not there! 

12* 


134 


First take me to Her grave!” 
And so to that secluded spot they turn’d, 
Where rest the silent dead. 

On the green mound, 
His Mother’s bed, with sobs and groans he fell, 
And in his paroxysm of grief would fain 
Have torn the turf-bound earth away, to reach 
The mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears, 
Heaven’s blessed gift burst forth, 

“Oh weep, my Son ! 
These gushing tears shall help to wash away 
Remorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin. 
Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past, 
And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to rise 
To a new life.” 

Still kneeling on the sod 
With hands and eyes uprais’d, he said, 

“Twill! 
So help me God!” 

The tear was on his cheek 
Undry’d, when to the home of peace they came. 
There Bertha greeted them with outstretch’d hands 
And beaming brow, while the good Pastor said, 
“Phy Son was dead, but is alive again.” 
A sweet voice answer’d, 

‘Lost he was, and found ! 
Oh, welcome home.” 

She would have folded him 
In her embrace. But at her feet he fell, 


135 


Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head, 
Till she assured him that a mother’s love 
Was in her heart. 

‘‘ And there is joy in Heaven 
Because of him, this day,” the good Man said. 
—His tones were tremulous, as up he rose, 
“Ah, my veil’d Angel! Now I see thy face, 
And hear thy voice.” 


What were the glowing thoughts 
Of the meek shepherd, as alone he took 
His homeward way? The joy of others flow’d 
O’er his glad spirit like a refluent tide 
Whose sands were.gold. Had he not chosen well 
His source of happiness ? 

There are, who mix 
Pride and ambition with their services 
Before the altar. Did the tinkling bells 
Upon the garments of the Jewish priest 
Draw down his thoughts from God ? 

The mitred brow, . 
Doth it stoop low enough to find the souls 
That struggle in the pits of sin, and die? 
Methinks ambitious honors might disturb 
The man whose banner is the Cross of Christ, 
And earth’s high places shut him out of Heaven. 


—Yet this serene disciple, so content 
To do his Master’s will, in humblest works . 


136 


Of charity, had he not chosen well 


His happiness ? 
The hero hears the trump 


Of victor-fame, and his high pulses leap, 

But laurels dipp’d in blood shall vex his soul 
When the death-ague comes. More blest is he 
Who bearing on his brow the anointing oil 
Keeps in his heart the humility and zeal 

That sanctify his vows. So, full of joy 

That fears no frost of earth, because its root 

Is by the river of eternal life, 

The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way. 


\ 
% 
New life upon the farm. A master’s eye 


And step are there. Forest, and cultured field, 
And garden feel his influence. Forth at morn 
He goes amid the laboring hinds who bathe 
Their scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toils 
Teaching or learning, with such cheerful port 
As won their hearts. 

Kven animals partook 
His kind regard. ‘The horse, with arching neck, 
And ear erect, replied as best he might 
To his caressing tones. ‘The patient ox, 
With branching horns, and the full-udder’d cow 
Grew sleek and flourish’d and in happiest guise 
Reveal’d his regency. The noble dog, 
O’erflowing with intelligence and zeal, 
Follow’d him as a friend; even the poor cat 


137 


Oft seorn’d and distane’d, till her fawning love 
Turns into abjectness, crept to his knee 
Without reproof, and thro’ her half-shut eyes 
Regarding him, ere into sleep she sank 

With song monotonous, express’d her joy. 


—He loved to hear the clarion of the cock, 
And see him in his gallantry protect 
The brooding mothers,—of their infant charge 


So fond and proud. 
The generous care bestow’d 


For weal and comfort of these servitors 

And their mute dialect of gratitude 

Pleas’d and refresh’d him, while those blessed toils 
That quicken earth’s fertility bestowed 

The boon of healthful vigor. Bertha found 

The burden of her cares securely laid 

On his young arm, and gratefully beheld 

Hach day a portion of allotted time 

Spent in the library, with earnest care, 

Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn’d. 


—Amid their rural neighborhood were some 
Who frankly took him by the hand, as one, 
Worthy to rise, and others who preferr’d 

To cherish evil memories, or indulge 

Dark auguries. But on his course he held 
Unmovy’d by either, for to her he seem’d 
Intent and emulous alone to please 

A higher Judge. When leaning on his arm 


158 


She sought the House of God, her tranquil brow 
Seem’d in its time-tried beauty to express 
The Nune Dimitts. 

Prisons are not oft 
Converting places. Vicious habits shorn 
Of their top branches, strike a rankling root 
Darkly beneath, while hatred of mankind 
And of the justice that decreed such doom 
Bar out the Love Divine. 

Yet Bertha felt 
God’s spirit was not limited, and might 
Pluck brands from out the burning, and in faith 
Believ’d the son of many prayers had found 
Remission of his God. His life she scann’d, 
Of honest, cheerful industry, combined 
With intellectual progress, and perceived 
How his religious worship humbly wore 
The signet “J have sinn’'d ;” while toward men 
His speech was cautious, far beyond his years, 
As one by stern Experience school’d to know 
The human heart’s deceptions. Yet at home 
And in that fellowship with Nature’s works 
Which Agriculture gives, his soul threw off 
Its fetters and grew strong. 

Once as they walk’d 
Within a favorite grove, consulting where 
The woodman’s ax, or pruning-knife had best 
Exert their wholesome ministry, he led 
To a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat, 


139 


Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpeted 
With depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brook 
Half-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch, 
Soften’d the spirit. There, in tones subdued 
By strong emotion, he disclosed his love 
For Leonore. 

‘“Oh Conrad! she is pure 
And peaceful as the lily bud that sleeps 
On the heaven-mirror’d lake.” 

““T know it well, 
Nor would I wake a ripple or a breath 
To mar its purity.” 

“Yet wait, my Son!” 
* Wait? Mother, wait! It ds not in man’s heart 
To love, and wait?” 

‘But make your prayer to God. 
Lay your petition at his feet, and see 


What is His will.” 
‘‘ Before that God I swear 


To be her true protector and best friend 

Till death remove me hence, if she confide 
At fitting time, that holy trust to me. 

Oh angel Mother! sanction me to search 

If in her heart there be one answering chord 
To my great love. So may we lead below 
That blended hfe which with a firmer step 
And holier joy tends upward toward a realm 
Of perfect bliss.” 


140 

Thus authorized, he made 
Her mind’s improvement his delight, and found 
Community in knowledge was a spell 
To draw young hearts together. O’er the lore 
And language of her native land they hung 
Gleaning its riches with a tireless hand, 
Deep and enamour’d students. When she sang 
Or play’d, he join’d her with his silvery flute, 
Making the thrill of music more intense 
Through the heart’s harmony. 

Amid the flowers 
He met her, and her garden’s pleasant toil 
Shared with a master’s hand, for well he knew 
The nature and the welfare of the plants 
That most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees, 
And in their strong, columnar trunks beheld 
The Almighty Architect, and for His sake 
Paid them respect. 

At the soft twilight hour, 
He sate beside her silently, and watch’d 
The pensive lustre of her lifted eye, 
Intent to welcome the first star that hung 
Its holy cresset forth. Unconsciously 
Her moods of lonely musing stole away, 
And his endear’d society became 
Part of her being. 

In her soul was nought 
Of vanity, or coquetry to bar 


141 


That heaven-imparted sentiment which makes 
All hope, all thought, all self, subordinate 
Unto another’s weal, while life shall last. 


One morn, the orphan sought the private ear 
Of her kind benefactress. 

In low tones 
With the sweet modesty of innocence, 
She told that Conrad offered her his heart, 
And in the tender confidence of trust 
Entreated counsel from her changeless friend. 


‘Can you o’erlook the past, my Leonore? ” 


“Our God forgives the penitent. And we 
So prone to error, cannot we forgive? 
The change in Conrad, months and years have made 


More evident. 
Might I but sooth away 


The memory of his woes, and aid his feet 
More steadfastly to tread in virtue’s path, 

And make him happier on his way to Heaven, 
My life and love I'd gladly consecrate.” 


Wrapp’d in her arms the foster-mother gave 
A tearful blessing, while on bended knee 
Together they implored the approving smile 
Of Him, who gives ability to make 


And keep the covenant of unending love. 
13 


142 


A rural bridal, 
Cupid’s ancient themes 


Though more than twice-told, seem not wearisome 
Or obsolete. The many tomes they prompt 
Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintain 

In library or boudoir, and seduce 

The school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too. 
But I no tint of romance have to throw 

On this plain tale, or o’er the youthful pair 

Who gladly took the irrevocable vow. 


Their deep and thoughtful happiness required 
No herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose, 
On brow and bosom, were the only gems 
Of the young fair-hair’d bride, whose ringlets fell 
Down to her shoulders:—nature’s simple veil 
Of wondrous grace. 

A. few true hearted friends 
Witness’d the marriage-rite, with cheering smiles 
And fervent blessings. 

And the coming years 
With all their tests of sunshine or of shade, 
Belied no nuptial promise, striving each 
With ardent emulation to surpass 
Its predecessor in the heavenward path 
Of duty and improvement. 

Bertha’s prayers 
Were ever round them as a thread of gold 
Wove daily in the warp and woof of life. 


148 


In their felicity she found her own 
Reduplicated. In good deeds to all 
Who sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe, 
With unimpaired benevolence she wrought, 
And tireless sympathy. 

Ordain’d she seem’d 
To show the beauty of the life that hath 
God for its end. 

Clearer its brightness gleam’d 
As nearer to its heavenly goal it drew. 
The smile staid with her till she went above, 
Death harm’d it not. Her passport to that clime 
Where Love begun on earth, doth end in joy, 
Forevermore. 


REV. DR. T. M. COOLEY, 


For more than sixty years Pastor of one Church in East Granville, Mass., 
died there in 1859, aged 83. 


Nor in the pulpit where he joy’d to bear 
The message of salvation, not beside 
His study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair, 
Encircled by those dearest ones who found 
In him their life of life, nor in the homes 
Of his beloved flock, sharing with them 
All sympathies of sorrow or of joy, 
Is seen the faithful Shepherd. 
He hath gone 

To yon blest Country where he long’d to be, 
To stand before the Great White Throne, and join 
That hymn of praise for which his course below 
Gave preparation. 

At one post he stood 
From youth till fourscore years, averse to change 
Though oft-times tempted. For he did not deem 
Restless ambition or desire of gold 


148 


Fit counterpoise for that most sacred love 
Born in the inner chambers of the soul, 
And intertwining with a golden mesh 
Pastor and people. 

Like some lofty tree 
Whose untransplanted roots in freshness meet 
The living waters, and whose leaf is green 
’Mid winter’s gather’d frost, serene he stood, 
More fondly honor’d for each added year, 
While ’neath his shadow drew with reverent love 
Successive generations. 


Hoary Time 
Linger’d with blessings for his latest day, 
And now ’neath turf embalm’d with tears he sleeps, 
Waiting the resurrection of the just. 


MADAM OLIVIA PHELPS, 


Widow of the late ANSon G. PHELPS, Esq., died at New York, April 24th, 
_ 1859, aged 74. 


WHEN the good mother dieth, and the home 
So long made happy by her boundless love 
Is desolate and empty, there are tears 

Of filial anguish, not to be represt ; 

And when the many friends who at her side 
Sought social sympathy and counsel sweet, 
Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour’s sake, 
Found bountiful relief, and kind regard, 
Stand at that altered threshold, and perceive 
Faces of strangers from her casement look, 
There is a pang not to be told in words. 


Yet, when the christian, having well discharged 
A life-long duty, riseth where no sin 

Or possibility of pain or death 

May follow, should there not be praise to Him 
Who gives such victory ? 


150 


Thus it is even now— 
Tears with the triumph-strain ; 
For we are made 
Of flesh as well as spirit, and are taught 
By Joy and Sorrow, walking side by side, 
And with strong contrast deepening truths divine. 


But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer, 
And o’er whose mortal sickness hovering Faith 
Shed heaven’s content, there was no further need 

Of tutelage like that by which we learn, 

Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds, 

What the disciples of our Lord should be; 

For when the subjugation to God’s will 

Is perfect, and affliction all disarmed, 

Is not life’s lesson done ? 


MARTHA AGNES BONNER, 


Child of RoperT BonNER, Esq., died at New York, April 28th, 1859, aged 13 


months. 


THERE was a cradling lent us here, 
To cheer our lot, 

It was a cherub in disguise, 

But yet our dim and earth-bow’d eyes 
Perceiv’d it not. 


Its voice was like the symphony 
That lute-strings lend, 

Yet tho’ our hearts the music hail’d 

As a sweet breath of heaven, they fail’d 
To comprehend. 


It linger’d till each season fill’d 
Their perfect round, 

The vernal bud, the summer-rose, 

Autumnal gold, and wintry snows 


Whitening the ground. 


152 


But when again reviving Spring 
Thro’ flowers would roam, 

And the white cherry blossoms stirr’d 

Neath the soft wing of chirping bird, 

A call from angel-harps was heard, 
‘‘Cherub,—come home.” 


MADAM WHITING, 


Widow of the late SpenceR WHITING, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, 
aged 88. 


Lirr’s work well done, how beautiful to rest. * 
Aye, lift your little ones to see her face, 
So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed|! 7 
There is no wrinkle there,—no rigid gloom 
To make them turn their tender glance away ; 
And when they say their simple prayer at night 
With folded hands,—instruct their innocent lips ~ 
Meekly to say: ‘Our Father! may we live, 
And die like her.” 

Her more than fourscore years 
Chill’d not in her the genial flow of thought 
Or energy of deed. The earnest power 
To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth 
Of social intercourse, the sweet response 
Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy, 
And reverencing her saintly piety, 


Were with her, unimpair’d, until the end. 
14 


154 


A course like this, predicted close serene, 
And so it was. 
There came no cloud to dim 
Her spirit’s light, when at a beckoning brief 
She heavenward went. 
Miss’d is she here, and mourn’d; 
From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board, 
A beauty and a dignity have fled,— 
And the heart’s tears as freely flowed for her, 
As for the loved ones, in their prime of days. 
Age justly held in honor, hath a charm 
Peculiarly its own, a symmetry 
Of nearness to the skies. 
And these were hers, 
Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace. 


DENISON OLMSTED, LL. D., 


Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May, 1859, 
; 


/ SPRING pour’d fresh beauty o’er the cultured grounds, 
And woke to joyance every leaf and flower, 
Where erst the Man of Science lov’d to find 
Refreshment from his toils. 


"T'was sweet to see 
How Nature met him there, and took away 
All weariness of knowledge. Yet he held 
Higher communion than with fragrant shrub, 
Or taper tree, that o’er the forest tower’d. 
His talk was with the stars, as one by one, 
Night, in her queenly regency, put forth 
Their sprinkled gold upon her sable robe. 
He knew their places, and pronounce’d their names, 
And by their heavenly conversation sought 
Acquaintance with their Maker. 


156 


Sang they not 
Unto his uncloth’d spirit, as it pass’d 
From sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks, 
With its attendant angel ? 
| We are dark. 
We ask, and yet no answer. 
But we trace 
In clearest lines the shining course he took 
Among life’s duties, for so many years, 
And hear those parting words, that “all 7s peace /”* 
The harvest-song of true philosophy. 


His epitaph is that which cannot yield 

A mouldering motto to the tooth of time. 
—RMan works in marble, and it mocks his trust, 
But the immortal mind doth ever keep 

The earnest impress of the moulding hand, 
And bear it onward to a race unborn. 


—That is his monument. 


* The last words of Professor Olmsted. 


HERBERT FOSS, 


Only son of Samuet S. Foss, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three years and 


three months. 


‘“READ more, Papa,” the loving infant cried,— 
And meekly bow’d the listening ear, and fix’d 
The ardent eye, devouring every word 
Of his dear picture book. And then he spread 
His arms, and folded thrice the father’s neck. 
—The mother came from church, and lull’d her boy 
To quiet sleep, and laid him in his erib ; 
And as they watch’d the smile of innocence 
That sometimes lightly floated o’er his brow 
That Sabbath eve, they to each other said, 
* How beautiful.” 
There was another scene,— 
The child lay compass’d round with Spring’s white flowers, 
Yet heav’d no breath to stir their lightest leaf. 
And many a one who on that coffin look’d 


And went their way, in tender whisper said 


“ How beautiful /” 
14* 


158 


Oh parents, ye who sit 
Mourning for HERBERT, in your empty room, 
What if the darling of your fondest care 
Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven ? 
—Our dream is longer, but ’tis mixed with tears. 
For we are dreamers all, and only those 
Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives. 


So, when time’s vision o’er, you reach the land 
Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon 
To give it light, how sweet to hear your child 
Bid you ‘‘ good morning” with his cherub tongue. 


His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite book, 
were, ‘‘ Read, more, papa, please read more.” Soon after, and almost without 
warning, he died. 


MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER, 


Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage. 


THE year rolls round, and brings again 
The bright, auspicious day, 

The marriage scene, the festive cheer, 
The group serenely gay, 


The hopes that nurs’d by sun and shower 
O’er youth’s fair trellis wound, 

And in that consecrated rite 
Their full fruition found. 


But One unseen amid the throng 
Drew near with purpose fell, 

And lo! the orange-flowers were changed 
To mournful asphodel. 


Five sabbaths walk’d the beautiful 
Her chosen lord beside, 

But ere the sixth illumed the sky 
She was that dread One’s bride. 


160 


Yet call her not the bride of Death 
Though in his bed she sleeps, 

And broidering Myrtle richly green 
O’er her cold pillow creeps : 


She hath a bower where angels dwell, 
A mansion with the blest, 

For Jesus whom she trusted here, 
Receiy’d her to His rest. 


REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER, 


Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia Springs, 
July, 1859. 


THE great and good. How startling is the knell 
That tells he is but dust. 

The echo comes 
From where Virginia’s health-reviving springs 
Make many whole. But waiting there for him 
The dark-winged angel who doth come but once, 
Troubled the waters, and his latest breath 
Fled, where his first was drawn. 

That noble brow 
So mark’d with intellect, so clear with truth, 
Grave in its goodness, in its love.serene, 
Will it be seen no more? 

That earnest voice 
Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously, 
With themes of import to the undying soul 
Enforced by power of fervid eloquence 
Is it forever mute ? 


162 


That mind so rich 
With varied learning and with classic lore, 
Studious, progressive, affluent, profound, 
That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy 
For the world’s family of grief and pain, 
The dark in feature, or the lost in sin, 
Say, are their treasures lost? 

No, on the page 
Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen 
They live and brighten for a race to come, 
Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful, 
And for the little children whom he loved 
Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls 
Glittering along their path. 

His chief delight 
Was in his Master’s work. How well performed 
Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation’s rock 
Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved 
No element of self, but hand in hand 
Walk’d with humility. He needeth not 
Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments 
Of bronze or marble, what are they to him 
Who hath his firm abode above the stars? 


—Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep 
The transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask 
‘When shall we look upon his like again ?” 


MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN, 
Died at Hartford, August, 1859. 


I saw her overlaid with many flowers, 
Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow, 
Stainless and fragrant as her memory. 


Blent with their perfume came the pictur’d thought 
Of her calm presence,—of her firm resolve 

To bear each duty onward to its end,— 

And of her power to make a home so fair, 

That those who shared its sanctities deplore 

The pattern lost forever. 


Many a friend, 
And none who won that title laid it down, 
Muse on the tablet that she left behind, 
Muse,—and give thanks to God for what she was, 
And what she is ;—for every pain hath fled 
That with a barb’d and subtle weapon stood 
Between the pilgrim and the promised Land. 


164 


But the deep anguish of the filial tear 
We speak not of,—save with the sympathy 
That wakes our own. 

And so, we bid farewell. 


Life’s sun at setting, may shed brighter rays 
Than when it rose, and threescore years and ten 
May wear a beauty that youth fails to reach : 
The beauty of a fitness for the skies,— 
Such nearness to the angels, that their song 
“Peace and good will,” like key-tone rules the soul, 
And the pure reflex of their smile illumes 
The meekly lifted brow. 
She taught us this,— 
And then went home. 


MISS ALICE BECKWITH, 


Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859. 


THE beautiful hath fled 
To join the spirit-train ; 
Karth interposed with strong array, 
Love stretch’d his arms to bar her way, 
All, 


all in vain. 


There was a bridal hope 
Before her crown’d with flowers ; 
The orange blossoms took the hue 
With which the cypress dank with dew 
Darkeneth our bowers. 


Affections strong and warm 

Sprang round her gentle way, 
Young Childhood, with a moisten’d eye, 
And Friendship’s tenderest sympathy 


Watch’d her decay. 
15 


166 


Disease around her couch 
Long held a tyrant sway, 
Till vanished from her cheek, the rose, 
And the fair flesh like vernal snows 
Wasted away. 


Yet the dark Angel’s touch 
Dissolv’d that dire control, 
And where the love-knot cannot break 
Nor pain nor grief intrusion make, 
Bore the sweet soul. 


MARY SHIPMAN DEMING. 


& 


Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1859, aged 4 years and 6 months. 


THE garner’d Jewel of our heart, 
The Darling of our tent! 

Cold rains were falling thick and fast, 
When forth from us she went. 


The sweetest blossom on our tree, 
When droop’d her fairy head, 

We might not lay her ’mid the flowers, 
For all the flowers were dead. 


The youngest birdling of our nest, 
Her song from us hath fled ; 

Yet mingles with a purer strain 
That floats above our head. 


Pop We ae OS wings we may not s 

We listen,—all in vain: 
sf ‘But when this wintry life is o'er, _ 
We'll hear her voice again. 


oe 


REV. DR. F. W. HATCH, 


Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70. 


A PLEASANT theme it is to think of him 
That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind 
Were ever active to the highest ends. 
Even sceptics paid him homage ’mid their doubts, 
Perceiving that his life made evident 
A goodness not of earth. 

His radiant brow 
And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye 
Told how the good of others triumph’d o’er 
All narrowness of self. He deem’d it not 
A worthy aim of Christ’s true ministry 
To chaffer for the gold that perisheth 
Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms ; 
But love of souls, and love of Him who died 
That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal. 


— And so, while half a century chronicled 
The change of empires, and the fall of kings 


15* 


170 4 


And death of generations like the leaves 

That strew the forest ‘neath autumnal skies, 
He toil’d unswerving in that One Great Cause 
To which the vigor of his youth was given. 


—And as his life, its varied tasks well done 
Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him 
Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward 
Unto his faithful servants, it behooves 
Us to rejoice who have so long beheld 
His pure example. 

From it may we learn 
Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls 
With fervent hearts to seek for others’ good, 
And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here 
Some foretaste of the bliss that ne’er shall end. 


MRS. PAYNE, 
Wife of Right Rev. Bishop Payne, died at Monrovia, Liberia. 


O8 true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years 
Of mission-toil in Afric’s sultry clime 

Attest thy patience in thy Master’s cause, 

Thy self-denial and humility. 


Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm, 
And where Liberia’s church-crown’d summits rise, 
Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep 

With gratitude for all thy hallow’d care. 


—The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts 
Was link’d so tenderly,—who found in thee 
Solace for exile from his native shore, 

Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by. 

He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best, 
Thy purity, thy sublimated search 

For added holiness. With angel hand 

Press thou thy pattern on us,—we who dwell 
Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven, 
Forgetful of our heathen brother’s need. 


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ae). Now a pee sleep, ae pain aan woe 
Follow thee not. Their trial-time 1 is o’er, rer? 
Their discipline perfected. For thy will 
Was subjugated to the Will Divine, 
And through a dear Redeemer’ S tg ate thy aout 
Hath won the victory. 


MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON, 


Wife of Rev. WrtLiAm H. C. Rospertson, died at Magnolia, East Florida, 
January 13th, aged 34. 


Our buds have faded, —winter’s frigid breath 
Sigh’d o’er their bosoms, and they fell away, 
So in these household bowers the ice of death 
Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay, 
And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skies 
Beneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies. 


A brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales 
Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and high 
T'wined the home-tendril where our northern gales 
Sweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy, 
Labor’d for classic lore with studious part, 


And planted friendship’s germ in many an answering heart. 


Her filial piety intensely warm 
Whose gushing tenderness no limit knew, 


174 


Clasp’d day and night, a Mother’s wasted form 
And o’er her failing powers protection threw, 

Cheering the darken’d soul with comfort sweet 

And girding it anew, life’s latest pang to meet. 


Then came the sacred vow for good or ill, . 
The life-long study of another’s joy, 
The raptur’d and unutterable thrill 
With which a mother greets her first-born boy, 
The climax of those hopes and duties dear 
Which Heaven’s unerring hand accords to Woman’s sphere. 


And then the scene was ended, and she found 
What here her ardent nature vainly sought, 
Unwithering flowers and music’s tuneful sound 
Without a shadow or discordant thought, 
And entered through a dear Redeemer’s love 
The never-changing clime of perfect rest above. 


MADAM WILLIAMS, 


Widow of the late EzexreL WILLIAMS, Esq., and Daughter of Chief Justice 
Oliver Ellsworth, died at Hartford, February 28th, 1860, aged 87. 


SHE was a link that bound us to the past,— 
To the great days of Washington, when men 
Loving their country better than themselves 
Show’d to the world what patriot virtue meant. 
She on the knee of her majestic sire 

Drew to her listening heart when life was new 
Those principles that made his honored name 
Synonymous with wisdom, and the might 

Of holy truth. 


So when in woman’s sphere 
She took her post of duty, still in all 
The delicate proprieties of life, 
The inner sanctities of household weal, 
Tn social elegance, and in the deeds 
That christian pity to the poor extends, 
She was our model; and we saw in her 
The perfect lady of the olden time. 


176 


Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dwelt 
In her green-terraced home, o’ercanopied 

By graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers, 
The years stole over her, and slowly wrote 
Their more than fourscore on her faded scroll, 
While the kind care of unexhausted love 
Guarded her long decline. 


And now she sleeps 
Where thro’ the riven snows, the quickening turf 
Gives emblem of the never-ending Spring, 
That wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy. 


SAMUEL G. OGDEN, ESQ., 


Died at Astoria, New York, April 5th, 1860. 


Upon his suffering couch he lay, 
Whose noble form and mind 

The stress of fourscore years had tried, 
Yet left a charm behind. 

The charm of heaven-born happiness 
Whose beauty may not fade, 

The charm of unimpair’d regard 
For all whom God had made. 


Upon his suffering couch he lay, 
While sadly gathering there, 

Were loved and loving ones, who made 
That honored life their care ; 

And ’mid the group, a daughter’s voice ' 
Of wondrous sweetness read 

Brief portions from the Book Divine, 


As his dictation led. 
16 


178 


“Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful, 
Oh, hearken while I speak, 

Now in my time of utmost need, 
To Thee alone I seek. 

Shew me some token, Lord, for good, 
Before I pass away, 

For Thou hast ever been my strength, 
My comforter and stay.” * 

So when that precious breath went forth, 
Her gentle hand was laid 

To close those pale and trembling lids 
In slumber’s dreamless shade, 

And then, the pure and sacred flowers 
She for his burial twined, 

And bade her struggling grief be still 
Till the last rite declined. 


Through every trial change of life 
Had reign’d within her breast 
A holy zeal of filial love, 
That could not be represt ; 
Its memories, like a music strain, 
Still in that casket swell, * 
And wake perchance, some fond response 
Where watching angels dwell. 


* The 86th Psalm, one of his favorites, as death drew nigh was often read 
to him by his daughter, who never left him, day or night, during his sickness, 
and “out of whose arms,” says one who was present, ‘when he drew his 
last breath, the angels took him,”’ 


MR. GEORGE BEACH, 
Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860. 


AYE, robe yourselves in black, light messengers 
Whose letter’d faces to the people tell 

The pulse and pressure of the passing hour. 
"Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them, 
And tint your tablets with a sable hue 

Who bring them tidings of a loss so great.’ 


What have they lost? 
An upright man, who scorn’d 
All subterfuge, who faithful to his trust 
Guarded the interests they so highly prized, 
With power and zeal unchang’d, from youth to age. 


Yet there’s a sadder sound of bursting tears 

From woe-worn helpless ones, from widow’d forms 
O’er whom he threw a shelter, for his name 

Long mingled with their prayers, both night and morn. 


180 


The Missionary toward the setting sun 
Will miss his liberal hand that threw so wide 
Its secret alms. The sons of want will miss 
His noble presence moving thro’ our streets 
Intent on generous deeds; and in the Church 
He loved so well, a silence and a chasm 
Are where the fervent and responsive voice, 
And kingly beauty of the hoary head 
So long maintained their place. 
Sudden he sank, 
Though not unwarn’d. 
A. chosen band had kept 
Watch through the night, and earnest love took note 
Of every breath. But when approaching dawn 
Kindled the east, and from the trees that bowered 
His beautiful abode, awakening birds 
Sent up their earliest carol, he went forth 
To meet the glories of the unsetting sun, 
And hear with unseal’d ear the song of heaven. 


—So they who truest loved and deepest mourn’d, 
Had highest call to praise, for best they knew 
The soul that had gone home unto its God. 


MISS MARGARET C. BROWN, 
Died at Hartford, May 12th, 1860. 


GONE, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home, 
Where nought of ill can follow. O’er thy life 
There swept no stain, and o’er its placid close 
No shadow. 

As for us, who saw thee move 
From childhood onward, loving and serene, 
To every duty faithful, we who feel 
The bias toward self too often make 
Our course unequal, or beset with thorns, 
Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good, 
For what thou wert, but most for what thou art. 


Thy meek and reverent nature cheer’d the heart 
Of hoary Age even in thine early bloom, 
And with sweet tenderness of filial care, 
And perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm 
Pillow’d a Mother’s head, till life went out. 

16* 


182 


We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns, 
Flowers in thy hand, and bosom,—parting gifts 
Of Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful, 
Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gain 
Of flowers that never fade and skies that need 
Not sun nor moon to light them. 

So farewell, 
Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way, 
Nor can we stand beside thine open grave 
Without a tear. 

Yet still doth chasten’d faith 
Ask help of God, to render back with praise 
A soul to which He gave the victory. 


MISS FRANCES WYMAN TRACY, 


Adopted daughter of Mrs. WILLIAM Tracy, died at New York, in 1860, 
aged 17. 


O younG and beautiful, thy step 
Was light with fairy grace, 
And well the music of thy voice 

Accorded with thy face, 


And blent with those attractive charms 
How fair it was to see 

Thy tenderness for her who fill’d 
A Mother’s place to thee. 


Yet all the pure and holy ties 
Thus round thy being wove, 
They are not lost, they are not dead, 
They have a life above. 


a 


“What though a sleepless care of love 
| Might not avail to save, — 

And SOrTOW with her dropping tear 
Keeps Me o’er thy grave, ° 


"Faith hath a rainbow for the cloud, 
A solace for the pain, 

A promise from the Book Divine | 
_To rise, nor part again. 


DEACON NORMAND SMITH, 


Died at Hartford, May 22d, 1860, aged 87. 


ONE saintly man the less, to teach us how 
Wisely to live,—one blest example more 
To teach us how to die. 
Fourscore and seven, 
Swept not the beauty of his brow away, 
Nor quell’d his voice of music, nor impair’d 
The social feeling that through all his life 
Ran like a thread of gold. 
In filial arms 
Close wrapp’d with watchful tenderness, he trod 
Jordan’s cold brink. 
The world was beautiful, 
But Christ’s dear love so wrought within his heart 
That to depart seem’d better. 
Many a year 
He lent his influence to the church he loved, 
For unity and peace, and countless gems 
Dropp’d from his lips when the last sickness came, 


186 


To fortify young pilgrims in the course 
That leads to glory and eternal life. 


As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look’d forth 
With added brightness thro’ the clear, dark eye, 
As though it saw unutterable things, 
Or heard the welcome of beloved ones 
Who went to rest before him. 

So, with smiles, 
And prayers and holy hymns, and loving words 
He laid the burden of the body down, 
And slept in Jesus. 


MRS. HELEN TYLER BEACH, 
Wife of Mr. C. N. Bracu, died at Philadelphia, July 30th, 1860. 


How strange that One who yesterday 
Shed radiance round her sphere, 
Thus, in the prime of life and health, 

Should slumber on the bier. 


How sad that One who cheer’d her home 
With love’s unvarying grace, 

Should leave at hearth-stone and at board 
Nought save a vacant place. 


The beaming hope that bright and fair 
Around her cradle shone, 

Made cloudless progress year by year, 
With lustre all its own, 


; While still unselfish aaa’ serene oe a 2 


That make their loss to earth so great, 


em ge 


‘Her daily course she drew, 
To every generous impulse w warm } 
To every ae, true: 


Yet all thésa pure and iatlo wed charms 
To favor’d mortals given, | 


Enhance the gain of Heaven. 


~ 


MRS. ELIZABETH HARRIS, 


Died at Hartford, Sunday evening, September 9th, 1860, aged 80. 


Ou sorrowing Daughter, left alone 
In home’s deserted sphere, 

Where every object group’d around, 

In pleasant room, or garden’s bound 

Is twined by links of sight or sound 
With the lost Mother dear; 


Yet take sweet thoughts thy grief to soothe 
Of what she was below, 
Her years to faithful duty given, 
Her comfort in the Book of Heaven, 
- Her ready trust when life was riven, 
T’o Christ, her Lord, to go. 


And take sweet memories of the care 

That smoothed her couch of pain, 
The grateful love that o’er her way 
Kept tender vigil, night and day, 
And let its pure, reflected ray 


Thy drooping heart sustain. 
17 


190 


So shall thy faith the pang assuage 
That heaves thy mourning breast ; 

For nearer brings each setting sun 

Their blessed meeting who have won 

The plaudit of the Judge, “‘ Well done, 
Come, enter to my rest.” 


MISS ANNA M. SEYMOUR, 
Died at Hartford, August 24th, 1860. 


THE beauteous brow, the form of grace, 
With all their youthful charms, 
The hand that woke the pencil’s power, 
And bore to penury’s lowly bower, 
The never-wearied alms, 


The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer’d 
A. grateful Sabbath train, 

The uprais’d eye that taught them more 

Of Heaven, than all their student lore, 
Must ne’er return again. 


She took her flight as from the cage 
Enfranchised warblers glide, 

Though friends were dear, and life was fair, 

She saw her Saviour standing there, 
Beyond rough Jordan’s tide. 


192 


Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand 
Prepared her glorious place, 

For us is loss,—for her release, 

The robe of rest, the home of peace,— - 
For us, the pilgrim race. 


Praise,—praise for her,—though love and grief 
Still mournful vigil kept,— 

The tear-wet incense He will take 

Who at the grave, for friendship’s sake, 
In holy sadness wept. 


CALEB HAZEN TALCOTT, 


» 
Son of C. TaLcort, Esq., died at Hartford, October 26th, 1860, aged 2 years 


and 6 months. 


THERE came a merry voice 
Forth from those lips of rose, 

As tireless through its fringing flowers 
The tuneful brooklet flows, 


And with the nurslings feet 
Engaged in busy play 

It made the parents’ pleasant home 
A joyance all the day. 


There breath’d a languid tone 
Forth from those pallid lips, 

As when some planet of the night 
Sinks in its dread eclipse. 
fi ty 


194 


‘‘ Sine to me, sing,” it cried, 
While the red fever reign’d, 

“Oh sing of Jesus,”* it implored 
While struggling life remained. 


Then rose a mournful sound, 
The solemn funeral knell, 

And silent anguish settled where 
The nursery’s idol fell. 


But he who so desired 
His Saviour’s name to hear 

Doth in His glorious presence smile, 
Above this cloud-wrapp’d sphere. 


* His request, during his sickness was, ‘‘ Sing to me of Jesus.” 


MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING, 


Died at Portland, Connecticut, January Ist, 1861. 


I THINK of her unfolding prime, 
Her childhood bright and fair, 
The speaking eye, the earnest smile, 

The dark and lustrous hair, 


The fondness by a Mother’s side 
To cling with docile mind, 

Fast in the only sister’s hand 
Her own forever twined, 


The candor of her trustful youth, 
The heart that freshly wove 

Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers, 
Because it dwelt in love, 


The stainless life, whose truth and grace 
Made each beholder see 

The gladness of a spirit tuned 
To heavenly harmony. 


196 


But when this fair New-Year looked forth 
Over the old one’s graye, 

While bridal pleasures neath her roof 
Their bright infusion gave, 

Upon the lightning’s wing there came 
A message none might stay, 

An angel,—standing at her side. 
To bear the soul away. 


For us, was sorrow’s startling shock, 
The tear, the loss, the pain, 

For her, the uncomputed bliss 
Of never-ending gain. 


MISS ANNA FREEMAN, 


Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861. 


THE world seems drearier when the good depart, 
The just, the truthful, such as never made 
Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words 
To counterfeit a love they never felt; 
But steadfast and serene—to Friendship gave 
Its sacred scope, and ne’er from Duty shrank, 
Though sternest toil and care environ it. 
These, loving others better than themselves, 
Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss 
While here below, unknown to selfish souls, 
And when they die, must find the clime where dwells 
A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams 
To their absorbing ocean. 
Such was she 
Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile 
Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid 
Or sympathy, her ready hand well-skill’d 


198 


. In all that appertains to Woman’s sphere, 
Her large heart pouring life o’er every deed, 
And her warm interchange of social joy 
Stay with us as a picture. 
There, we oft 
Musing, shall contemplate each lineament 
With mournful tenderness, through gushing tears, 
That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain. 


MADAM POND, 


Widow of the late Cates Ponp, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th 1861, 
aged 73. 


WOULD any think who marked the smile 
On yon untroubled face, 

That threescore years and ten had fled 
Without a wrinkling trace ? 


Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard 
The beauty of its prime, 

And hold a quenchless lamp above 
The water-floods of time. 


And she, for whom we mourn, maintained 
Through every change and care, 

Those hallowed virtues of the soul 
That keep the features fair. 


They raised a little child to look 
Into the coffin deep, 

Who dream’d the lovely lady lay 
But in a transient sleep, 


200 


And gazed upon the face of death 
With eye of tranquil ray, 

Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers, 
That on her bosom lay. 


Then on the sad procession moved, 
And mid funereal gloom, 

The only son was there to lay 
His mother in the tomb. 


Oh, memories of an only child, 
How strong and rich ye are! 

A wealth of concentrated love 
That none beside can share. 


And hence, the filial grief that swells, 
When breaks its latest tie, 

Flows onward with a fuller tide 
Than meets the common eye. 


With voice of holy prayer she pass’d 
Forth from her pleasant door, 

Where tender recollections dwell 
Though she returns no more. 


Even so the pure and pious rise 
From tents of pain and woe, 

But leave a precious transcript here 
To guide us where they go. 


ANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON, 


Daughter of Lucius F. Roprnson and Mrs. Exiza S. Rosinson, died at Hart- 
ford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months. 


Dips’T hear him call, my beautiful ?— 
The Sire, so fond and dear 

Who ere the last moon’s waning ray, 

Pass’d in his prime of days away, 
And hath not left his peer? 


Say, beckoning from yon silver cloud 
Though none beside might see, 

A hand that erst with Jove and pride 

Its little daughter’s steps would guide— 
Stretch’d out that hand for thee? 


The wreathing buds of snowy rose 
That o’er thy bosom lay, 
Were symbols in their beauty pale, 
Of thy young life so sweet and frail, 
And all unstain’d as they. 
18 


on Oh isinicken’ hearts 1—bear up—bear on 
2 ; Ay v8 Think of your Saviour's grace, eet ‘ 
Think of the spirit-welcome given, _ 
Sora Bie When at the pearly gate of Heaven, 
gee: Father and child embrace. | 


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MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK, 
Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22. 


I saw a brilliant bridal. 

All that cheers 
And charms the leaping heart of youth was there ; 
And she, the central object of the group, 
The cherished song-bird of her father’s house, 
Array’d in beauty, was the loved of all. 
Would I could tell you what a world of flowers 
Were concentrated there—how they o’erflow’d 
In wreaths and clusters—how they climb’d and swept 
From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons 
Whispering each other in their mystic lore 
Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell, 
. As best they might, the tide of happiness. 


A few brief moons departed and I sought 

The same abode. There was a gather’d throng 
Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers 
Crept o’er a bosom and a gentle hand 


204 


That clasp’d them not. A holy hymn awoke 
In plaintive melody ; but she who breath’d 
The very soul of music from her birth, 
Lay there with close-seal’d lips. 

And the same voice 
That in the flushing of the autumnal rose 
Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words 
“ What God hath join’d together let no man 
Asunder put,” now, in the chasten’d tones 
Of deep humility and tenderness, 
Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird 
The hearts that freshly bled. 


At close of day, 
In the lone, sadden’d hour of musing thought, 
I seem’d to view a scene where, side by side, 
Bridals and burials gleam’d—the smile and tear— 
Anguish and joy—peace in her heavenly vest, 
And brazen-throated war—and heard a ery, 
“Such is man’s life below.” 

I would have wept, 
Save that a symphony of harps unseen 
Broke from a hovering cloud; ‘‘ Lo! we are they 
Who from earth’s tribulation rose and found 
Our robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more.” 


List! List! She mingleth in that raptur’d strain 
Who said so sweetly to her spirit’s-guide, 
That the dear Lord whom she had early serv’d 


205 


Stood near in her extremity, and gaye 
Her soul full willingness to leave a world 
All bright with beauty, and requited love. 


And so Death lost his victory, tho’ he snatched 
The unwither’d garland out of Hymen’s hand, 
And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb. 


18* 


WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, 


Son of Dr. WILLIAM and Mrs. MARY WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, died at Fayette, 
Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years. 


Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother’s bosom, and said 


“Mama, ‘take your boy,—boy tired,” and never looked up healthfully again. 


Boy tired! the drooping infant said, 
And meekly laid his noble head, 
Down on that shielding breast, 
Which mid all change of grief, or wo, 
Had been his Paradise below, 
His comforter and rest. 


Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love, 

That sleepless toiled and watched and strove, 
For dire disease portends. 

Alas for Science and its skill 

Opposed to his unpitying will 
This mortal span that rends. 


207 


Boy tired! So thou hast past away, 

From heat and burden of the day, 
From snares that manhood knows,— 

From want and wo and deadly strife, 

From wrong, and weariness of life, 
Hast found serene repose. 


Boy tired! Those words of parting pain 
Thou never more wilt breathe again, 
Nor lift the moaning cry, 
For naught to wound or vex, or cloy, 
Invades the cherub home of joy, 
No shade obscures the sky. 


O, mother! When above ye meet, 

When all these years, so few and fleet, 
Fade like a mist away, 

This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed, 

Shall seem but as an April cloud, 
Before the noon-tide ray. 


MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR, 
Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861. 


SHE found a painless avenue to make 
The great transition from a world of care 
To one of rest. 

_ It was the Sabbath day, 
And beautiful with smile of vernal sun 
And the up-springing fragrance from the earth, 
With all that soothing quietude which links 
The consecrated season unto Him 
Who bade the creatures He had made, revere 
And keep it holy. 

From her fair abode, 

Lovely with early flowers, she took her way 
The second time, unto the House of God, 
And side by side with her life’s chosen friend 
Walk’d cheerfully. Within those hallow’d courts, 
Where holds the soul communion with its God, 
She listening sate. 


209 


But then she lean’d her head 
Upon her husband’s shoulder, and unmark’d 
By one distorted feature, by the loss 
Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek, 
Rose to more perfect worship. 

It might seem 
As if a sacred temple, purified 
By prayers and praises, were a place sublime, 
Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear 
The inexpressive call that summoneth 
The ready spirit upward. 

But the change 
In her delightful home, what words can tell! 
The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill’d 
With order and efficiency to fill 
Each post of woman’s duty and of love, 
Vanished from all its daily ministries, 
And the lone daughter found the guiding voice 
Silent forevermore. 

Her’s was the heart 
For an unswerving friendship, warm and true, 
And self-forgetful; her’s the liberal hand 
To those who pine in cells of poverty, 
The knowledge of their state, the will to aid, 
The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest. 


Hence, tears o’er rugged cheeks fell fast for her, 
And the old white-hair’d pensioner knelt down 
Beside her lifeless clay and cross’d himself, 


210 


And pour’d his desolate prayer; for her kind heart 


Saw in the creed of varying sects no bar 
To charity, but in their time of need ; 
Held all as brethren. 

"T'was a pleasant spot, 
Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down, 
While the young plants that o’er a daughter’s grave 
Took summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach 
Forth their incipient roots and tendrils green 
To broider her turf-pillow. 

Sleep in peace, 
Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound, 
And death disparted for a little while, 
Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace ; 
Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts, 
As with a diamond’s point, till memory fade. 


MRS. FREDERICK TYLER, 
Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861. 


THEY multiply above, with whom we walk’d 
In tender friendship, and whose steadfast step, 
Onward and upward, was a guide to us 

In duty’s path. 


They multiply above, 
Making the mansions that our Lord prepared 
And promised His redeemed, more beautiful 
To us, the wayside pilgrims. 


One, this day 
Hath gone, whose memory like a loving smile 
Lingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm 
And make her pleasant home a cloudless scene 
Of happiness to children and to guests; 
But most to him whose heart for many years 
Did safely trust in her, finding his cares 
Divided and his pleasures purified. 


212 


A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed, 
Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of pain 
Narrowed the scope of her activities, 

Its radiance comforted the friends who came 

To comfort her. 


With soul serenely calm 
She felt the cherished ties of earth recede 
That long had bound her in such fond control, 
And with a hymn upon her whitening lip, 
A thrilling cadence tremulously sweet, 
Into the valley of the shade of death 
Entered unshrinkingly. 


How blest to rise 
With song of praise, unto that tuneful choir 
Whose harps are ne’er unstrung, and have no tone 
Of weary dissonance. 


The rose of June 
Was in its flushing, and a few brief moons 
Had cast upon her lovely daughter’s grave 
Their hallowed lustre, when we laid so low 
Her perishable part, seeming to hear 
Their chant of welcome, unto whom the Sun 
No more goes down, and partings are unknown. 


MISS LAURA KINGSBURY, 
Died at Hartford, July, 1861. 


FAITHFUL and true in duty’s sacred sphere, 
How like the summer-lightning hath she fled ! 

One moment bending o’er the letter’d page,— 
The next reposing with the silent dead. 


No more by shaded lamp, or garden fair ;— 
Yet hath she left a living transcript here, 

Yon helpless orphans will remember her,* 
And the young invalid she skilled to cheer; 


And he who trusted in her from his birth, 
As to a Mother’s love,—and friends who saw 
Her goodness seeking no applause from earth, 
But ever steadfast to its heavenly law: 


For she, like her of old, with listening ear 
Sate at the Saviour’s feet and won His plaudit dear. 


*She was a judicious and faithful manager of tlie Female Beneficent 
Society of Hartford. 
| 19 


GOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL, 


Died at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs. Etiza Storrs 
TRUMBULL, the night after his funeral. 


DEATH'S shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark. 
—And one hath fallen who bore upon his shield 
The name and lineage of an honor’d race 
Who gave us rulers in those ancient days 
Where truth stood first and gain was left behind. 


—His was the type of character that makes 
Republics strong,—unstain’d fidelity, — 
A dignity of mind that mark’d unmovy’d 
The unsought honors clustering round his path, 
And chang’d them into duties. With firm step 
On the high places of the earth he walk’d, 
Serving his Country, not to share her spoils, 
Nor pamper with exciting eloquence 
A parasite ambition. 

With clear eye 
And cautious speech, and judgment never warp’d 


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215 


By fancy or enthusiasm, he pursued 
An even, upright course. His bounties sought 
Unostentatious channels, and he loved 
To help the young who strove to help themselves, 
Aiding their oar against opposing tides, 
Into the smooth, broad waters. 

Thus flow’d on 
His almost fourscore years,—levying slight tax 
On form or mind, while self-forgetful still, 
He rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak. 


—Yet, when at last, in deep repose he lay, 

His classic features, and unfurrow’d brow, 
Wearing the symmetry of earlier days 

Which Death, as if relenting, render’d back 

In transitory gleam, ‘twas sweet to hear 

His aged Pastor at the coffin-side 

Bearing full tribute to his piety 

So many lustrums,that consistent faith 

Which nerv’d his journey and had led him home. 
Home?—Yes! Give thanks, ye, who still travel on, 
Oft startled, as some pilgrim from your side 

Falls through the arches of Time’s broken bridge 
Without a warning, and is seen no more— 

Give thanks that he is safe,—at home,—in heaven. 


Back to the grave, from whence ye scarce have turn’d, 
Break up the clods on which the dews of night 


216 


But twice had rested. Lo! another comes. 

She, who for many years had garner’d up 

Her heart’s chief strength in him, finding his love 
Armor and solace, in all weal or woe, 

Seem’d the world poor without him, that she made 
Such haste to join him in the spirit-land ? 
Through the dark valley of the shade of death, 
Treading so close behind him? Scarce his lip 
Learn’d the new song of heaven, before she rose 
T'o join the enraptur’d strain. Her earthly term 
Of fair and faithful duty well perform’d, 

In fear of God, and true good will to man, 

How blessed thus to enter perfect rest, 

Where is no shadow of infirmity, 

Nor fear of change, but happy souls unite 


In high ascriptions to redeeming Love. 


And thou,* sole daughter of their house and heart, 
Leading thy mournful little ones to look 

Into the open and insatiate tomb, 

With what a rushing tide thy sorrows came. 
—The sudden smiting, in his glorious prime 

Of him who held the key of all thy joys,— 

The fair child following him,—the noble Friend 
Who watch’d thee with parental pride,—and now 
Father and Mother have forsaken thee. 

—The lessons of a life-long pilgrimage 

Thou hast achiev’d, while yet a few brief moons 


217 


With waning finger, as in mockery wrote 
Of treasur’d hopes, more fleeting than their own. 


—But mays’t thou from these sterner teachings gain 
A higher seat, where no o’ershadowing cloud 
Veileth the purpose of God’s discipline. 

And mid their glad embrace,—the gone before,— 
The re-united ne’er to part,—behold 

The teaching of no bitter precept lost, 

Nor tear-sown seed fail of its harvest crown. 


* Mrs. Eliza S. Robinson, the only child of Governor and Mrs. Trumbull, 
whose early life had been a scene of singularly unbroken felicity, was ap- 
pointed to a fearful contrast of rapid and severe bereavements. Her noble 
husband, Lucius F. Robinson, Esq., in the midst of his days and usefulness, 
was suddenly smitten,—immediately after, their beautiful child, Annie Sey- 
mour,—then her distinguished relative, Chief Justice Storrs, who from her 
birth had regarded her with a fatherly love; and then both her parents, side 
by side, almost hand iu hand, passed to the tomb. 

With unsurpassed calmness, she met this whelming tide of sorrow, gird- - 
ing herself to her maternal duties, in the armor of a disciple of Jesus Christ. 
Yet with little warning, she was herself soon summoned to follow those be- 
loved ones, dying in August, 1862, at the age of 35, leaving three orphan 
daughters, and a large circle of friends to lament the loss of her beautiful ex- 
ample of every christian grace and virtue. 


19* 


MRS. EMILY ELLSWORTH, 


Wife of Govenor ELLSwortH, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL. D., died at 
Hartford, August 23d, 1861. 


Not with the common forms of funeral grief 
We mourn for her who in the tomb this day 
Taketh her narrow couch. For we have need 
Of such example as she set us here, 

The sphere of christian duty beautified 

By gifts of intellect, and taste refined ; 

A precious picture, set in frame of gold 

And hung on high. 


Hers was a life that bore 
The test of scrutiny, and they who saw 
Its inner ministration, day by day, 
Bore fullest witness to its symmetry, 
Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crown 
Of piety. A heritage of fame, 
And the rich culture of her early years 
Wrought no contempt for woman’s household eare, 
But gave it dignity. Order was hers, 
And system, and an industry that weighed 


219 


The priceless value of each fleeting hour. 
Hers was a charm of manner felt by all, 
A reference for authorities that marked 
The olden time, and that true courtesy 
Which made the aged happy. 


Scarce it seemed 
That she was of their number, or the links 
Of threescore years and ten, indeed had wound 
Their coil around her, with such warmth the heart, 
And cloudless mind retained their energies. 
Beauty and grace were with her to the last, 
And fascination that withheld the guest 
Beyond the allotted time. 

More would we say, 
But her affections ’tis not ours to touch 
In Jays so weak. He of their worth might tell, 
Whose dearest hopes so long with hers entwined, 
And they. who shared the intense maternal love, 
That knew no pause of effort, no decay, 
No weariness, but glazed the dying eye 
With heayen-born lustre. 


So, we bid farewell ; 
Friend and Exemplar, we who tread so close 
In thine unechoing footsteps. 


Be thy faith 
As strong for us, when we the bridge shall pass 
To the grand portal of Eternity. 


REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D.D., 
Died at New Haven, August 25th, 1861, aged 78. 


I WELL. remember him, and heard his voice 
In vigorous prime, beneath the Temple- Arch, 
His brow enkindling with its holy themes. 


And I remember to have heard it said 

In what a patient studiousness of toil 

His youth had pass’d, and how his manhood’s tent 
Spread out its curtains joyously, to shield 

His aged parents, from their lonely home 
Amid the glory of the Berkshire hills, 
Turning in tender confidence to him; 

And giving scope to earn the boon that crowns 
The fifth commandment of the decalogue. 
—And this he did, for their departing prayer 
Fell balmily upon his filial heart, 

As when the dying Jacob, blessed his race 
And worshipp’d, leaning on his patriarch-staff. 


221 


—His lengthened life amid a peaceful scene 
Flow’d on, with loving memories. 

He had serv’d 
The Church he lov’d, not in luxurious ease, 
But self-forgetful as a pioneer, 
When she had fewer sons to build her walls, 
Or teach her gates salvation. 

And the dome 
Of yon fair College on its classic heighth 
So beautiful without, and blest within,— 
By liberal deeds, as well as gracious words 
Remembereth him and with recording pen 
Upon the tablet of its earlest* friends 


Engraves his name. 
So, full of honor’d years, 


Blessing and blest, he took his way, above. 


*The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was the first founder of a scholarship in Trinity 
College, Hartford, a quarter of a century since. 


MISS DELIA WOODRUFF GODDING, 


A faithful Teacher of the young from early years, and recently the Princi- 
pal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at .St. Anthony, Minnesota, 
died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her paternal home in 
Vermont, September, 15th, 1861. 


T'HINE earnest life is over, sainted Friend! 

And hush’d the teaching voice that gladly pour’d 
Knowledge and goodness o’er the plastic mind. 
—Full many a pupil of thy varied lore 

Amid thine own New-England’s elm-crowned vales 
Holds thee in tenderness of grateful thought, 
And far away in the broad-featured west 

Where the strong Sire of waters robes in green 
The shores of Minnesota, comes a wail 

From youthful bands expecting thy return, 

To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb. 


They watch in vain. 

The pleasant halls are dark 
Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears 
Reveal the love that linger’d there for thee. 


223 


Said we thy life was o’er? 

Forgive the words. 
We take them back. 

Thou hast begun to live. 
Here was the budding, there the perfect flower, 
Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun, 
Here the scant preface, there the open Book 
Where angels read forever. 


Here on the threshold, the dim vestibule 

Thou with a faithful hand didst toil to tune 

That harp of praise within the unfolding heart 
Which ’neath the temple-arch not made with hands 
Swells the full anthem of Eternity. 


MISS SARA K. TAYLOR, 


Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20, 


How beautiful in death 
The young and lovely sleeper lies— 
Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes, 
Flowers o’er the snowy neck and brow 
Where lustrous curls profusely flow ; 
If ’twere not for the icy chill 
That from her marble hand doth thrill, 
And for her lip that gives no sound, 
And for the weeping all around, 

How beautiful were death. 


How beautiful in life! 
Her pure affections heavenward moving, 
Her guileless heart so full of loving, 
Her joyous smile, her form of grace, 
Her clear mind lighting up the face, 
And making home a blessed place, 
Still breathing thro’ the parents’ heart 
A. gladness words could ne’er impart, 
A faith that foil’d affliction’s dart— 
How beautiful her life. 


225 


Gone to the Better Land! 
Before the world’s cold mist could shade 
The brightness on her spirit laid, 
Before the autumnal breeze might fray 
One leaflet from her wreath away, 
Or crisp one tendril of the vine 
That hope and happiness did twine— 
Gone—in the soul’s unfaded bloom 
That dreads no darkness of the tomb— 
Gone to the Better Land. 


20 


MR. JOHN WARBURTON, 
Died at Hartford, November, 1861. 


THE knot of crape upon yon stately door, 
And sadness brooding o’er the sun-bright halls, 
What do they signify ? 

Death hath been there 
Where truth and goodness hand in hand with love 
Walk’d for so many years. 

Death hath been there, 
To do mid flowing tears his mighty work, | 
Extinguishing the tyranny of pain 
And taking the immortal essence home 
Where it would be. , 

Yet is there left behind 
A transcript that we cherish, and a chasm 
We have no power to fill. Almost it seems 
That we beheld him still, with quiet step 
Moving among us, saintly and serene, 
Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard, 
Yet meekly unambitious, seeking nought 


227 


Of windy honor from the mouth of men 

But with the Gospel’s perfect code content, 
Breathing good-will to all. 

| Freely his wealth 
Wrought blessed channels mid the sons of need, 
Lending Philanthropy and Piety 

A stronger impulse in their mission-course 

To ameliorate and save. 


So, thus intent 
On higher deeds and aims than. earth supplies, 
An adept in that true philosophy 
Learnt only in Christ’s school, he calmly went 
Unto his Master and the Class above. 


REV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST, 
Died at Warrensburgh, New York, November 12th, 1861, aged 26. 


*READ me rejoicing Psalms, 
Oh dearest one, and best ! 

I go from war to peace, 
From pain to glorious rest, 


Where the bright life-tree sheds 
Around its precious balms, 
So, while I linger here 
Read me rejoicing psalms. 


And when my place I take 
Amid the ransom’d throng 
Who through a Saviour’s love 
Uplift the immortal song, 


Repress the tear of grief 
That washes faith away, 

And brave in zeal and love 
Await our meeting-day. 


c 
_ suddenly separated him from an attached people, was, “Read me rejoicing 


ie Nis _ Yes, let thy course below 
Through all its fleeting days 
In its angelic ministries 
Be as a psalm of praise. 


* His request of his wife during the sufferings of an acute dyptheria, which 


Pr eealmns.”* | ae 7 


20* 


MISS CAROLINE L. GRIFFIN, 
Died at New York, November 17th, i861. 


WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 


THE day returns, beloved friend 
When in thy Mother’s arms 

Thou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid 
In all thine infant charms, 

That day, with cloudless sky returns, 
But yet thou art not here 

And from the smitten Mother’s eye 
Distils the mourner’s tear. 


The wondrous brightness of thy smile, 
Thy tones of greeting kind, 

The love of knowledge that inspired 
Thy strong and ardent mind, 

Thy pity for the suffering poor, 
Thy patient zeal to teach 

Their children, though in manners rude 
And ignorant in speech, 


231 


And all thy many deeds and words 
Of friendship’s earnest part, 

Are with a never-fading trace 
Depictured on my heart. 

But thou art with that Saviour dear 
Who was thine early choice, 

And mid thy blooming youth didst bend 
A listener to His voice, 


So thy firm faith without a fear 
Launch’d forth on Jordan’s wave 

The victor-palm-branch in thy hand 
That o’er stern Death He gave; 

And may we meet, beloved friend 
At God’s appointed day 

Where every care and pain of earth 
Have fled lke dreams away. 


MR. NORMAND BURR, 


Kditor of the ‘Christian Secretary” for more than twenty years, died at Hart- 


ford, December 5th, aged 59. 


WE knew him as a man of sterling worth, 
Whose good example is a legacy 
Better than gold for those he leaves behind. 


—His inborn piety flowed forth in streams 

Of social kindness and domestic love, 
Cheering with filial warmth the parents’ heart, 
And making his own home a pleasant place. 


—THis was that self-reliant industry, 

Smiling at hardship, which develops well 
The energies of manhood, and lends strength 
To commonwealths. 


By silent messenger, 
A weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroad 
The stores of knowledge, and increase the fruits 
Of righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan’d 
By many who had never seen his face 
Here in the flesh, but thro’ the links of thought 
Held intimate communion. 


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aoe. stis ithe rhe 6 Tifa im 
of ate is not lost to men below, Ea 
— Though smitten by the frost of death it fall, —- ¥; 
Its quickening memory survives, to gird 

- On in the heavenward race, and gently guide. 

Where the high plaudit of the Judge is won. 


HON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS, 


Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, 
December 15th, 1861, aged 84. 


"T's not for pen and ink, 
Or the weak measures of the muse, to give 
Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen 
Up from our midst this day. 


And yet ‘twere sad 
If such example were allow’d to fleet 
Without abiding trace for those behind. 
To stand on earth’s high places, in the garb 
Of Christian meekness, yet to comprehend 
And track the tortuous policies of guile 
With upright aim, and heart immaculate, 
To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud, 
And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep 
The fountain of good-will to all mankind, 
To mark for more than fourscore years, a line 
Of light without a mist, are victories 
Not oft achiev’d by frail humanity, 
Yet were they his. 


- rw, i 
’ “4 


» 235 


Of charities that knew | 
No stint or boundary, save the woes of man 
He wish’d no mention made. But doubt ye not 
Their record is above. 

Without the tax 
That age doth levy, on the eye or ear, 
Movement of limbs, or social sympathies, 
In sweet retirement of domestic joy 
His calm, unshadow’d pilgrimage was closed 
By an unsighing transit. 


Our first wintry morn 
Lifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit 
All reverent, at the table of his Lord, 
And heard that kindly modulated voice 
Teaching Heaven’s precepts to a youthful class 
Which erst with statesman’s eloquence controll’d 
A different audience. The next holy day 
Wondering beheld his place at church unfill’d, 
And found him drooping in his peaceful home, 
Guarded by tenderest love. 


But on the third, 
While the faint dawn was struggling to o’ercome 
The lingering splendors of a full-orb’d moon, 
The curtains of his tent were gently raised 
And he had gone,—gone,—mourn’d by every heart 
Among the people. They had seen in him 
The truth personified, and felt the worth 
Of such a Mentor. 


236 


"T'were impiety 
To let the harp of praise in silence lie, 
We who beheld so beautiful a life 
Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him 
Who gave him power in Christ’s dear name to pass 
Unharm’d, the dangerous citadel of time, 
Unsullied, o’er its countless snares to rise 
From earthly care—to rest,—from war—to peace,— 
From chance and change,—to everlasting bliss. 


Give praise-to God. 


COLONEL H. L. MILLER, 
Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861. 


Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears 

The children shouting o’er their Christmas Tree, 
While in the next resound the widow’s wail 

And weeping of the fatherless. So walk 

Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at moun, 
The other with a ghost-like movement glides 

Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels 

Of life drive heavily, and all its springs 

Revolving in mysterious mechanism 

Are troubled.. 

| And how slight the instrument 
That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb, 
Revealing that the glory of his prime, 

Is.as the flower of grass. 


Of this we thought 
When looking on the face that lay so calm 
And comely in its narrow coffin-bed, 
Remembering how the months of pain that sank 
His manly vigor to an infant’s sigh 


Were met unmurmuringly. 
mark 


238 


Dense was the throng 
That gather’d to his obsequies,—and well 
The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird 
The smitten hearts that whelm’d in sorrow mourn’d 
Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love 
Guarded their happiness. 


Slowly moved on 
The long procession, led by martial men 
Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored 
Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay 
With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside 
His open grave. 

Then, the first setting sun 
Of our New- Year, cast off his wintry frown, 
And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold 
Upon the whiten’d earth, the glorious words, 
So shall the dead arise, at the last trump, 
Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power, 
Sown in corruption, to put on the robes 
Of immortality. 

Praise be to Him 
Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh 
Such victory. 


oe a Bite te Se Y 


COLONEL SAMUEL COLT, 


Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862. 


AND hath he fallen,—whom late we saw 
In manly vigor bold? 

That stately form,—that noble face, 
Shall we no more behold ?— 

Not now of the renown we speak 
That gathers round his name, 

For other climes beside our own 
Bear witness to his fame; 


Nor of the high inventive power 
That stretched from zone to zone, 
And ’neath the pathless ocean wrought,— 
For these to all are known ;— 
Nor of the love his hberal soul 
His native City bore, 
For she hath monuments of this 
Till memory is no more; 


240 


Nor of the self-reliant force 
By which his way he told, 

Nor of the Midas-touch that turn’d 
All enterprise to gold, 

And made the indignant River yield 
Unto the ozier’d plain,— 

For these would ask a wider range 
Than waits the lyric strain: 


We choose those unobtrusive traits 
That dawn’d with influence mild, 

When in his noble Mother’s arms 
We saw the noble child, 

And noted mid the changeful scenes 
Of boyhood’s sport or strife, 

That quiet, firm and ruling mind 
Which marked advancing life. 


So onward as he held his course 
Through hardship to renown, 

He kept fresh sympathy for those 
Who cope with fortune’s frown, 

The kind regard for honest toil, 
The joy to see it rise, 

The fearless truth that never sought 
His frailties to disguise, 


The lofty mind that all alone 
Gigantic plans sustain’d, 

Yet turned unboastfully away 
From fame and honors gained ; 


oo ae. ee 


241 


The tender love for her who blest 
His home with angel-care, 

And for the infant buds that rose 
In opening beauty fair. 


Deep in the heart whence flows this lay, 
Is many a grateful trace 

Of friendship’s warm and earnest deed 
Which nought can e’er replace ; 

For in the glory of his prime 
The pulse forsakes his breast, 

And by his buried little ones 


He lays him down to rest. 


And thousand stand with drooping head 
Beside his open grave, 

To whose industrious, faithful hands, 
The daily bread he gave, 

The daily bread that wife and babe 
Or aged parent cheer’d, 

Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs, 
Which he for them had rear’d. 


There’s mourning in the princely halls 
So late with gladness gay, 

A tear within the heart of love 
That will not dry away ; 

A sense of loss on all around, 
A sigh of grief and pain— 

‘The like of him we lose to day, 


We ne’er shall see again.” 
at as 


MADAM HANNAH LATHROP, 
Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92. 


Hap I an artist’s pencil, I might sketch 
Her as she was, in her young matronhood 
Graceful and dignified, serene and fair. 


—I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn, 
With pious zeal, the rural church she sought, 
Our rural church,—by rocks o’er-canopied,— 
Where with her stately husband and their group 
Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat, 
How many a glance was toward her beauty bent 
Admiringly. 

In those primeval days 
The aristocracy that won respect, 
Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base 
In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held 
Her healthful influence in society 
Without gainsaying voice. 


243 


The polity 
Of woman’s realm,—sweet home,—those inner cares 
And countless details that promote its peace, 
Prosperity and order, were not deem’d 
Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left 
To hireling hands. This science she upheld, 
And with her circle of accomplishments 
And charms so mingled it, that all combined 
Harmoniously. 

That energy and grace 
So often deem’d the exclusive property 
Of youth’s fresh season, or of vigorous prime, 
She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower, 
Making the gift of being beautiful, 
Even beyond ninety years. 

And though the change 
Of mortal life, dispers’d her cherish’d band, 
And some had gone their own fair nests to build 
And some arisen to mansions in the skies 
Alone, yet undismay’d, her post she kept, 
Guiding a household in the same good ways 
Of order and of hospitality. 


So, when with mild decline, the sunset came, 
Her powers still unimpair’d, all willingly 

As a confiding and obedient child 

Goes to its father’s house, she went above. 


HENRIETTA SELDEN COLT, 


Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH CoLt, died January 20th, 1862, 


aged 7 months and 27 days. ° 


THE MOURNING MOTHER. 


A TOMB for thee, my babe! 

Dove of my bosom, can it be? 
But yesterday in all thy charms, 
Laughing and leaping in my arms, 

A tomb and shroud for thee! 


A couch for thee mine own, 

- Beneath the frost and snow ! 

So fondly cradled, soft and warm, 

And sheltered from each breath of storm, 
A wintry couch for thee ! 


Thy noble father’s there, 

But the last week he died, 
He would have stretched his guarding arm, 
To shelter thee from every harm, 

Nestle thee to his side. 


245 . 


Thy ruby lip skill’d not 

That father’s name to speak, 
Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play 
To kiss his picture when away, 

The love smile on thy cheek. 


Thy brother slumbereth there, 
Our first-born joy was he, 

Thy little sister sweetly fair, 

Most like a blessed bird of air; 
A goodly company. 


Only one left with me, 
One here and three above, 

Be not afraid my precious child! 

The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,— 
Sleep in His love. 


Thou never saw’st our Spring 
Unfold the blossoms gay ; 
But thou shalt see perennial bowers, 
Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers, 
That cannot fade away. 


And thou shalt join the song, 
That happy cherubs pour, 

In their adoring harmonies: 

Pll hear ye, darlings, when I rise 
To that celestial shore. 


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THE LITTLE BROTHERS. 


Wiuiam Cuitps Brewer, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and GEORGE 
CLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th, 1862. 


THE noble boy amid his sports 
Droop’d like a smitten flower 

That feels the frost-king’s fatal shaft, 
And withers in its bower. 


But then a younger darling sank 
In childhood’s rosy bloom, 

And those whose hearts were one from birth, 
Were brothers in the tomb. 


Not in the tomb. Abno! They rose 
Through Christ their Saviour’s love, 
In his blest presence to cement 
Their deathless bond of love. 


Are they not dwelling side by side? — 
‘Have they not ’scaped the strife, et 

The snares, the sins, the woes that stain 
ie Ite ck of life? 


Ob heart of sorrowing Love, be strong! 
Tho’ tenderest ties are riven, 
For do not earth’s bereavments aid 
The angel-chant of Heaven. 


MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON, 


Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61. 


WE did not think it would be so;— 
We kept 

The hope-lamp trimm’d and burning. Day by day 
There came reports to cheer us;—and we thought 
God in his goodness would not take away 
So soon, another of that wasting band 
Of worthies, whose example in our midst, 
Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare. 
These were our thoughts and prayers ;— 

But He who reigns 
Above the clouds had different purposes. 


On the low pillow where so late he mourn’d 
His gifted first-born, in the prime of days, 
Circled by all that makes life beautiful 

And full of joy, his honored head is laid,— 


The Sire and Son,—ne’er to be sunder’d more. 
22 


250 


Yet his unblemish’d memory still survives, | 
And walks among us;—the upright intent,— 
Firmness that conquer’d obstacles,—the zeal 
For public good,—the warmth of charity, 
And piety, that gave unwithering root 
To every virtue. 
| Of the pleasant home 

Where his most fond affections shed their balm 
And found response,—now in its deep eclipse 
And desolate, it is not ours to speak; 
Nor by a powerless sympathy invade 
The sacredness of grief. 

’"T'were fitter far 
For faith to contemplate that glorious Home 
Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise 
Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives 
Such blessed passport o’er the flood of Death, 
That ‘ where He is, there shall His servant be.” 


——- ~——s 


MR. SAMUEL TUDOR, 
Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92. 


WE saw him on a winter’s day, 
Beneath the hallowed dome, 
Where for so many years his heart 
Had found its Sabbath-home, 
Yet not amid his ancient seat 
Or in the accustomed place 
Arose his fair, and reverend brow, 
And form of manly grace. 


Then Music, through the organ’s soul 
Melodious descant gave, 

But yet his voice so rich and sweet 
Swell’d not the sacred stave, 


The Christmas wreaths o’er arch and nave 


Were lingering still to cheer 
His parting visit to the fane 
Which he had help’d to rear. 


. 252 


And flowers were on the coffin-ld 
And o’er his bosom strown, 

Fit offering for the friend who loved 
The plants of every zone, 

And bade them in his favor’d cell 
Unfold their charms sublime, 

And felt thé florist’s genial joy 
Repel the frost of time. 


No cloud of sorrow marr’d his course, 
Save when her loss he wept, 

Whose image in his constant soul 
Its angel presence kept, 

But heavenly Mercy’s balm was shed 
To cheer his lonely breast, 

For tenderest love in filial hearts 
His latest moments blest. 


And so, for more than ninety years 
Flow’d on his cloudless span, 

In love of Nature, and of Art, 
And kindred love for man, 

Our oldest patriarch, kind and true, 
To all our City dear, 

THis cordial tones, his greeting words 
No more on earth we hear. 


Last of that band of noble men 
Who for their Church’s weal 


is 253 


Took counsel in her hour of need 
And wrought with tireless zeal, 

Nor in their fervent toil declined 
Nor loiter’d on their ways, 

Until her Gothic towers arose 
And her full chant of praise. 


But as we laid him down with tears, 
The westering Sun shone bright, 
And through the ice-clad evergreens 
Diffused prismatic light, 

Type of the glory that awaits 
The rising of the just, 

And so, we left him in the grave 
That Christ his Lord had blest. 


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HENRY HOWARD COMSTOCK, 


Youngest child of the late Capt. Joun C. Comstock, died at Hartford, Feb- 
ruary 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months. 


IT was a fair and mournful sight 
Once at the wintry tide, 

When to the dear baptismal rite 

Was brought an infant, sweet and bright, 
His father’s couch beside, 


His dying father’s couch beside, 
Whose eye, with tranquil ray, 

Beheld upon that beauteous head 

The consecrated water shed, 
Then calmly pass’d away. 


A little while the lovely babe, 
As if by angels lent, 
With soft caress and soothing wile 
Invok’d a widow’d mother’s smile, 
Then to his father went. 


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REV. DR. DAVID SMITH, 


For many years Pastor of a Church in Durham, Conn., died at Fair Haven, 


March 3d, 1862, aged 94. 


THE transcript of a long, unblemish’d life 
Replete with happiness and holiness, 
Is a fair page to look upon with love 
In this world’s volume oft defaced by sin, 
And marr’d with misery. And he, who laid 
His earthly vestments down this day, doth leave 
Such tablet for the heart. 

"Twas good to see 
That what he preach’d to others, he portray’d 
Before them in example, that the eye 
Adding its stronger comment to the ear, 
Might lend new impulse to the flock he led 
Toward the Great Shepherd’s fold. 


Along his path 
Sorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain, 


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And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven, 
But touch’d his brow with sunbeams, and his heart 
With warmer charity. 

Year after year, 
Home’s duties and its hospitalities 
Were blent with cheerfulness, and when the chill 
Of hoary Time approach’d he took no part 
In that repulsive criticism of age, 
Pronouncing with a frown, the former days 
Better than these. 

The florid glow that tints — 

The cheek of health, which youth perchance, accounts 
Its own peculiar beauty, dwelt with him 
Till more than fourscore years and ten achiev’d 
Their patriarch circle, while the pleasant smile 
And genial manner, casting light around 
His venerable age, conspired to make 
His company desirable to all. 


And so beloved on earth and waited for 
Above, he closed this mortal pilgrimage 
In perfect peace. 


MISS. EMILY B. PARISH, 


Formerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th, 1862 


'EACHERS,—she is not here 
With the first breath of Spring 
Her aid to your devoted band 
With cheering smile and ready hand 
Untiringly to bring. 


Pupils,—her guiding voice, 
Her sweetly warbled strain 

Urging your spirits to be wise 

With daily, tuneful harmonies 
Ye shall not hear again. | 


Parents,—and loving friends 
The parents’ heart who shared, 
Give thanks to that abounding grace 
Which led her through the Christian race, 
To find its high reward. 


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Look to the Land of Love. 


HARRIET ALLEN ELY, 


Died at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2 months. 


SEVEN blest years our darling daughter, 
We have held thee to our hearts, 

Hvery season growing dearer ; . 

We have held thee near and nearer, 
Never dreaming thus to part. 


Seven brief years—our only daughter— 
Sweet has been the parent rule, 

Infant watch by cradle nightly, 

"Till we saw thy footsteps lightly ° 
Tripping joyously to school. 


Germ of promise,—bud of beauty, 
To our tenderest nurture given, 

Not for our too dim beholding 

Was thy fair and full unfolding; 
That perfection is in Heaven. 


Harth no license had to harm thee, 
Time no power to touch thy bloom, 

Holy is our faith to meet thee, 

Glorious is our trust to greet thee 
Far beyond the conquering tomb. 


MISS CATHARINE BALL, 


Daughter of Hon. Judge Bau of Hoosick Falls, N. Y., died at the City of 
Washington, 1862. 


BRIGHT sunbeam of a father’s heart 
Whose earliest radiance shone 

Delightful o’er a mother’s eye 

Like morning-star in cloudless sky, 
Say, whither hast thou flown? 


Fair inmate of a happy home 
Whose love so gently shed 

Could a serene enchantment make 

And love in stranger bosoms wake, 
Ah, whither art thou fled? 


They know, who trust the Saviour’s word 
With faith no tear can dim, 

That such as bear His spirit here 

And do His will in duty’s sphere 
Shall rise to dwell with Him. 


23 


262 


They know, who feel an Angel near, 
Though hid from mortal sight 

And reaching out to her their hand 

Shall safer reach that Pleasant Land 
Whose buds no blast can blight. 


Even I, who but with fleeting glance 
Beheld thee here below, 

From its remembered sweetness gain 

New impulse toward that heavenly train 

Whose harps in never-ceasing strain 
With God’s high praises glow. 


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MRS. MORRIS COLLINS, 
Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862. 


FRAIL stranger at the gate of life, 
Too weak to grasp its key, 

O’er whom the Sun on ear of gold 

Hath but a few times risen and roll’d, 
Unnoticed still by thee,— 


To whom the toil of breath is new, 
In this our vale of time 

Whose feet are yet unskill’d to tread 

The grassy carpet round thee spread 
At the soft, vernal prime,— 


Deep sympathy and pitying care 
Regard thy helpless moan, 

And ’neath thy forehead arching high 

Methinks, the brightly opening eye 
Doth search for something gone. 


264 


Yon slumberer ’mid the snowy flowers, 
With young, unfrosted hair, 

Awakes not at the mournful sound 

Of bird-like voices murmuring round 
“ Why sleeps our Mother there?” 


Hers was that sunshine of the heart, 
Which Home’s fair region cheer’d, 

Hers the upright, unselfish aim, 

The fond response to duty’s claim, 
The faith that never fear’d. 


Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark 
O’er this our path below, 

Not ours, with wild, repining sigh, 

To ask the wherefore, or the why, 
But drink our cup of woe. 


So, in her shrouded beauty cold, 

Yield to the earth its own, 
Assured that Heaven will guard the trust, 
Of that which may not turn to dust, 

But dwells beside the Throne. 


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MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE, 


Died at Saratoga, N. Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35. 


WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 


THIS was her birth-day here, 

W hen summer’s latest flowers 
Were kindling to their flush and prime, 
As if they felt how short the time 

In these terrestrial bowers. 


She hath a birth-day now 
No hastening night that knows, 
She hath a never-ending year 
Which feels no blight of autumn sere, 
Nor chill of wintry snows. 


She hath no pain or fear, 

But by her Saviour’s side 
Expansion finds for every power; 
And knowledge her angelic dower 

An ever-flowing tide. 

23* 


266 


They sorrow, who were called 
From her sweet smile to part, 
Who wore her love-links fondly twined 
Like woven threads of gold refined 
Around their inmost heart. 


Tears are upon the cheeks 
Of little ones this day, 
God of the motherless,—whose eye 
Notes even the ravens when they cry 
Wipe Thou their tears away: 


Oh, comfort all who grieve 
Beside the sacred urn,— 
For brief our space to wail or sigh, 
Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly, 
And rest with those we mourn. 


THE BROTHERS. 


Mr. FisHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and 
Mr. Henry R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, 
aged 30, the only children of Mr. Ropert and Mrs. LAURA BUELL. 


Both gone. Both smitten in their manly prime, 
Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here, 
And treasured memories of their boyhood’s time 

Allay the anguish of affection’s tear. 


One hath his rest amid the sacred shade 

Whose turf reveals the mourner’s frequent tread, 
And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid 

To slumber till the sea restores her dead. 


The childless parents weep their broken trust, 
Hope’s fountain failing at its cherish’d springs, 

And widow’d sorrow shrouds herself in dust, 
While one lone flowret to her bosom clings. 


Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought, 
No dark misrule this mortal life attends, 

A Heavenly Father’s never-erring thought 
Commingles with the discipline He sends. 


Be Not-tor His reasons let us dare. ts see 
ae Ste : His secret counsels not aspire | to read, | 
__- But faithful bow to each allotted task a: 
: And make His will our solace and our creed 
| | | 
| 


HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY, 


Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68. 


Iv is not meet the good and just 
Oblivious pass away, 

And leave no record for their race, 

Except a dim and fading trace, 

The memory of a day. 


We need the annal of their course, 
Their pattern for a guide,— 

Their armor that temptation quell’d,— 

The beacon-light that forth they held 
O’er Time’s delusive tide. 


Within the House of God I sate 
At Summer’s morning ray,— 
And sadly mark’d a vacant seat 
Where erst in storm, or cold or heat 
While lustrums held their way, 


Was ever seen with reverent air 
Intent on hallow’d lore, 

A forehead edg’d with silver hair, 

A manly form bow’d low in prayer,— 
They greet our eyes no more. 


270 


And where *Philanthropy commands 
Her lighted lamp to burn, 

And youthful feet inured to stray 

Are wisely warn’d to duty’s way, 
Repentant to return, 


He, with a faith that never fail’d, 
lis first inception blest,— 
And year by year, with zeal untired, 
Wise counsel lent,—new hopes inspired, 
And righteous precepts prest. 


They did him honor at his grave, 
Those men of mystic sign, 

Whose ancient symbols bright and fair, 

The Book, the Level, and the Square, 
Betoken truth benign: 


All do him honor, who regard 
Integrity sincere, 
But they who knew his virtues best, 
While fond remembrance rules the breast 
Will hold his image dear. 


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* Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State Reform 
School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of Trustee for the 
County of Hartford, and was at the time of his death, the Chairman of that 


body, and a prominent member of its Executive Committee. His frequent 


visits to that Institution, his attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest 
satisfaction in its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance. 


AS 


_ Son of Mr. Morris Cours, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862, aged 


tld \ne Vee as AL: ee Guinte p ee es a iS 


RICHARD ELY COLLINS, 


3 months and 27 days. 


It was a sad and lovely sight 
They call’d us to behold, 
That infant forehead high and fair, 
Those beauteous features sculptured rare, 
Yet breathless all, and cold. 


Heard it in dreams, an angel voice 
Soft as the zephyr’s tone? 

The yearning of a Mother mild 

To clasp once more her three months’ child 
But a few days her own? 


Just a few days of wasting pain 

She linger’d by its side, 
And then consign’d to stranger arms 
The frail unfolding of the charms 

She would have watch’d with pride. 


272 


Yet happy babe! to reach a home 
Beyond all sorrowing cares, _' 
Where none a Mother’s loss can moan - 
Or seek for bread, and find a stone, 
Or fall in fatal snares. 


Thrice happy,—to have pass’d away 
Hre Time’s sore ills invade,— 
From fragrant buds that drooping shed 
Their life-sigh o’er thy coffin-bed— 
To flowers that never fade. 


MISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY, 
Died at Hartford, September 28th, 1862. 


WE miss her at the chancel-side, 
For when we last drew near, 

The holy Eucharist to share, 

She, with the warmth of praise and prayer 
Was meekly kneeling here. 


We miss her when the liberal hand 
Relieves a thirsting soil, 
And when the Blessed Church demands 
Assistance for the mission bands 
That on her frontier toil. 


We miss her ’mid the gather’d train 
Of children* young and poor, 
Whom year by year she deign’d to teach 
With faithful zeal and patient speech, 
And hope that anchor’d sure. 
24 


274 


Her couch is in the ancestral tomb 
With Putnam’s honor’d dust, 

The true in word, the bold in deed, 

A bulwark in his Country’s need, 
A tower of strength and trust. 


Her spirit’s home is with her Lord, 
Whom from her youth she sought, 

The miss’d below hath found above 

The promise of a God of Love 
Made to the pure in thought. 


* The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with St. Paul’s Church, 
where she had been for several years an indefatigable and valued teacher. 


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’ 
; MR. JOHN A. TAINTOR, 


_ Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62 years. 


A SENSE of loss ison us. One hath gone 
Whose all-pervading energy doth leave 
A yoid and silence ’mid the haunts of men 
And desolation for the hearts that grieve © 
In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone, 
Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown. 


Those too there are who eloquently speak 
Of his firm friendship, not without a tear, 
Of its strong power to undergird the weak 
And hold the faltering feet in duty’s sphere, 
While in the cells of want, a broken trust 
In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust. 


‘ 


In foreign climes, with patriotic eye 

He sought what might his Country’s welfare aid, 
And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest 

Spread their proud fleeces o’er our verdant glade, 
And Scotia’s herds, as on their native shore 
Our never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore. 


276 


Intent was he to adorn his own domain 
With all the radiant charms that Flora brings, 

There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name, 
The favor’d rose its grateful fragrance flings, 

And in their faithful ranks to guard the scene 

Like changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen. 


On friendly deeds intent, while on his way 

A widow’d heart to cheer,—One grasp’d his hand 
Whose icy touch the beating heart can stay, 

And in a moment, at that stern command 
Unwarn’d, yet not unready, he doth show 
The great transition made, that waits on all below. 


Yet, ah! the contrast,—when the form that pass’d 
Forth from its gates, in full vitality, 
Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne, 
No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply, 
Each nameless care assume with earnest skill, 
Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill. 


But hallow’d lips within the sacred dome 
Where he so long his sabbath-worship paid 
Have given his soul to God from whence it came 
And laid his head beneath the cypress shade, 
While “be ye also ready,” from his tomb, 
In a Redeemer’s voice, doth neutralize the gloom. 


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